


like a river flows surely to the sea

by itsahockeyplay



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Soulmates, lots of feelings, sid has no soulmate and geno's got someone else but DON'T WORRY it works out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsahockeyplay/pseuds/itsahockeyplay
Summary: With one final nod, Geno says, “Okay, I'm go,” squeezing Sid's shoulder as he turns, and Sid's chest aches a little as he watches Geno's back, which is dumb, because he's seen Geno walking toward someone else so many times now, he should be used to it. He shouldn't feelthis muchevery fucking time.





	like a river flows surely to the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormDancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/gifts).



> big, big, BIG thanks to my wonderful betas sevenfists and signechan!!! @ stormdancer hope this is okay!!

Sid doesn’t let himself pine.

 

It’s a waste of time, really. He has better things to do — more important things to think about. Pining doesn’t help him in any way; it doesn’t make him a better player, a better person. It just distracts, and he’s pretty good at ignoring distractions.

 

Sometimes, though.

 

Sometimes, it slithers in through some crack and overtakes him, until all he’s thinking about is love, family, and how that shit probably isn’t in the future for him.

 

Coincidentally, this only happens when he’s drunker than he should be and Geno’s around him, talking, laughing, flirting — with others. Always with others.

 

It’s self-pitying. Makes him feel like a teenager again, when he waited and waited and waited for a mark, any mark, to show up somewhere on his skin. No one really knows  _ what  _ it’s going to be — for some, it’s a name; for others, a sentence; some have matching tattoos; and some... some have nothing.

 

It isn’t something he likes to advertise. He’s weird enough as it is, and if it got out that he doesn’t have a mark, that he doesn’t have a “soulmate,” the hockey robot jokes would start hitting a little too close to home — people would start wondering: What’s  _ really  _ wrong with him?

 

So he pretends. Wears a band over his wrist, as if he’s hiding its existence, not hiding its absence. No one’s caught on yet, thank fuck, and he has no intention of ever letting that happen.

 

“You’re looking exceptionally melancholic tonight,” Tanger says, forcing Sid back to reality.

 

He turns toward Tanger, pausing a moment as he tries to remember what Tanger had said. The bar’s — well, it isn’t loud, actually. It’s small, intimate; the only excuse Sid has for taking way too long to respond is alcohol. “What?”

 

“I said you’re looking exceptionally melancholic tonight,” Tanger says, and Sid’s drunk —  _ way  _ too drunk — but he’s pretty sure Tanger looks concerned. Flower elbows Tanger in the side, hissing something low and fast, before looking at Sid, just as concerned as Tanger.

 

“Are you okay?” Flower asks.

 

Sid smiles. At least, he attempts to; he isn’t sure how well his face is responding to his brain right now. “Yeah, I’m totally fine.” He blinks before looking around. “Wait, where’d Duper go?”

 

“Getting more drinks,” Flower says, waving a hand in the general direction of the bar. “And you are  _ not  _ ‘fine,’ stop lying.”

 

Sid frowns at Flower, leaning back a little. “If you already knew, why’d you ask?”

 

“Who’s asking what?” Duper says, drinks in his hand as he slides in next to Sid, passing Flower and Tanger beers.

 

Sid turns his frown toward Duper. “Where’s mine?”

 

Duper laughs a little. “I think you’ve had enough, my friend.” He raises his eyebrows at 

 

Flower and Tanger. “So who was asking what?”

 

Tanger tips the bottom of his bottle toward Sid as he takes a sip. “Flower asked him if he was okay, and then he lied and said he was, so Flower called him out and he didn’t like it.”

 

Duper stares at Sid, and he’s using his dumb dad stare or whatever and Sid hates it because he always cracks. “Stop looking at me like that,” Sid says.

 

“Like what?” Duper asks, as if he doesn’t know.

 

“Like you’re — staring into my soul, or whatever.”

 

“If you stopped lying or deflecting the question, I’d stop staring into your soul.” He shrugs, gaze still steady on Sid’s face. “I can do this all day. I have four kids; I have the patience of a  _ saint _ .”

 

“Yeah, the saint of — of — of…” Sid tries to think of something, but huffs out a breath when he can’t. “Of something bad.” He’s already pretty bad at avoiding talking to Duper, and right now, he has no fucking chance.

 

“You really got me there,” Duper says, tipping his bottle in Sid’s direction, mock-earnest. “Cheers to your wit.” He nudges Sid in the shoulder. “Talk.”

 

Sid opens his mouth, still deciding between ‘Fuck off’ and ‘Fuck you’ when Geno appears by the side of the table, grinning at Sid, a little flushed and a lot attractive.

 

“Sid!” he says, and then he pauses, the smile fading, replaced by a look very much like the expression Tanger and Flower are wearing. “Why you look sad?”

“I'm not,” Sid says, throwing Geno a smile. “Just annoyed. Because of them.” He gestures at the the three guys huddling around him, their concern suffocating him from every side.

 

He doesn't  _ want  _ to talk about this, Jesus fucking Christ. He'll be fine tomorrow.

 

Geno's smile is small, uncertain, but there. “Maybe I rescue you.”

 

Sid nods. “Oh my god, please.” He shoves at Duper. “Move. I'm being rescued.”

 

Duper lets out an explosive sigh as he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Why are you this fucking stubborn.”

 

But Duper gets up after a beat, and as Sid shuffles out, he says, “ 'Cause I'm a good captain. Leadership.”

 

Duper smiles at him, insincere. “Right, forgot.”

 

Sid pauses in front of him. “I  _ am _ .”

 

Duper's smile loses the insincerity and acquires fondness. “Yeah, you are.”

 

Geno slings an arm around him. “Best captain.” He pats Sid's shoulder. “Come, I take you home.”

 

“If only,” Sid mutters, but he must not be muttering quietly enough because Duper, Flower, and Tanger snap their heads toward him, staring with wide eyes. Sid stares back, eyes just as wide, because  _ fuck _ , and then turns to Geno, because  _ fucking fuck _ .

 

But Geno isn't looking at him, is looking into the crowd, as if searching for someone. He looks down at Sid, brow furrowed. “You say something?”

 

Sid shakes his head vehemently. “No.”

 

“Okay.” Geno draws him closer, making him stumble a bit as he starts dragging Sid. 

 

“Let's go, yes?”

 

“Yeah.” But Geno's still looking at the crowd, and then Sid sees a woman smiling back, staring at Geno and then looking to Sid, smile turning hesitant, and Sid realizes what's happening quickly enough he feels a little sick. He tugs himself free from Geno and pushes him in the direction of the woman, hoping it comes out sincere when he says, “Go to her, c'mon, I know you were going to. Don't let me ruin your night.”

 

Geno frowns at him, stepping closer. “You're not ruin. Take you home.”

 

Geno's close enough Sid can smell his overpriced cologne, see his necklace glinting where it's peeking out of his shirt at his shoulders, and Sid swallows, taking a step back, shaking his head. “Seriously, Geno, I can make my way home.”

 

Geno's still frowning, and he takes  _ another  _ step closer. “But — ”

 

Sid takes another step back, rolling his eyes as he says, “Jesus, Geno, I'm not a kid. You don't have to tuck me into bed. I'll get a taxi or something.” He smiles. “You rescued me from Duper and company, that's all I really needed.” He motions at where the woman's standing with his head. “Go have fun. I'll see you day after tomorrow, yeah?”

 

Geno hesitates. “You're look — sad.”

 

“I told you I'm not. I'm just… _ way  _ drunker than I should be. And Flower and Duper and Tanger wouldn't stop talking.” He spreads his arms. “I'm 110% okay now.”

 

Geno inhales sharply, as if to say something, but bites his lip instead, eyes searching Sid's face.

 

“Geno,” Sid says as firmly as he can.

 

“Okay, okay,” Geno says. “Not need use captain voice. Send text when you get home.”

Sid nods. “Yeah, sure.” And then he waits for Geno to finish looking over him, thinking about saying something like,  _ Go get her, tiger _ , but he isn't drunk enough to think  _ that's  _ a good idea. There isn't enough alcohol in the  _ world _ to make that sound like a good idea.

 

With one final nod, Geno says, “Okay, I'm go,” squeezing Sid's shoulder as he turns, and Sid's chest aches a little as he watches Geno's back, which is dumb, because he's seen Geno walking toward someone else so many times now, he should be used to it. He shouldn't feel  _ this much  _ every fucking time.

 

He clears his throat, looking down at his shoes, glancing up to see Geno pull the woman into his arms, both of them laughing, and he clenches his jaw as he forces himself to turn away, making his way to the door.

 

***

 

He wakes up the next day thanks to the doorbell ringing, and he lies there for a moment, wondering if he can just ignore it.

 

The person ringing the doorbell pushes it incessantly, one trill after the other, which means the answer to that question is  _ no _ . Sighing, he sits up, immediately regretting that decision. Like every time this happens, he swears he’s never going to drink again. Jesus.

 

Which reminds him of Geno, who had offered to take him home, and how he'd responded in front of everyone, and now, Sid has a pretty good idea of who's ringing his doorbell like an asshole at — he squints at the clock sitting on the bedside table — seven in the morning on an off-day.

 

God, he hopes it isn't the Three Musketeers standing on his doorstep because he absolutely is  _ not  _ in the mood to have a conversation about him, Geno, and the nonexistence of him and Geno.

 

He gets up and shuffles to the door, opening it without looking to see who it is and heading to the kitchen because his mouth tastes disgusting and he needs water. Whoever it is will very loudly announce their arrival, anyway.

 

“ _ Good _ morning.” It's Tanger's voice, loud and excessively chipper.

 

“Morning,” Sid throws over his shoulder, grabbing a glass and filling it with water so he can drink it as he turns, leaning against the counter and staring at Tanger, who's got two coffees in his hand and is smiling worryingly wide.

 

“I see you're alive, which is always a good thing,” Tanger says, stopping on the other side of the kitchen. Setting a coffee down on the island, he slides it toward Sid then leans back.

 

“Thanks,” Sid says, accepting it and taking a sip. He isn't a fan, but lattes are the exception. “I guess you drew the short straw.”

 

Tanger shrugs, studying him, expression at odds with the jovial way he says, “Such is life, I'm afraid.”

 

Sid nods his head in agreement. Doesn’t he fucking know it. “Why are you awake this early, though? You couldn't show up at, like, nine or ten?”

 

“Because I have a kid, and if I can't sleep, no one else can, either.”

 

Sid raises his eyebrows at Tanger, waiting for him to ask. He sure as fuck isn't going to bring it up himself.

 

Tanger sets the coffee on the counter, sliding the sleeve up and down, staring at the cup for a moment before looking at Sid. “Is Geno your soulmate?”

 

Sid chokes on the coffee. He hadn't expected Tanger to ask it just like  _ that _ . “What?”

Tanger clears his throat. “Is he your soulmate?” When Sid doesn't answer, Tanger leans forward, elbows on the island. “Look, I know people don't ask, but I'm —  _ we're  _ worried about you. And — what you said. Last night.” He shrugs. “Well, it would make sense.”

 

Sid's breath catches. “What do you mean, it would make sense?” Fuck. Fuck, does  _ everyone  _ know Sid's in love with Geno?

 

“Well…” Tanger shifts before straightening. “You've always, y'know. Been a little different with Geno.” He must see the dawning panic on Sid's face because he rushes to say, “It isn't obvious or anything. Only noticeable if someone knows you well.”

 

Sid takes a slow breath. He'd been prepared to deny remembering saying anything, but he doesn't even have to lie for this question. “No, he isn't.”

 

“ _ Really _ .”

 

Sid sets the coffee down so he can cross his arms. “Yeah, really.”

 

Tanger's looking at him, lips pursed. Sid doesn't say anything, staring back.

 

Tanger's the first one to break. “I don't understand why you're lying. It's so obvious — “

 

“ _ Obvious _ ?” Sid's voice is pitched higher than he'd like. “What's so obvious about it? It isn't even true! I know who my fucking soulmate is, Tanger, and it isn't  _ Geno _ .”

 

Tanger spreads his arms, eyebrows raised. “Why are you  _ lying _ ? No one's going to think less of you — “

 

“He  _ isn't _ , Jesus fucking Christ — “

 

“Then who is? If it isn't Geno,  _ who  _ is?”

 

“No one! I don't fucking have one!”

 

Sid wants to take it back as soon as it's out of his mouth. It's obvious when Tanger registers his words — he deflates, staring at Sid in confusion. “What… what do you mean, you don't have one?”

 

“Nothing,” Sid snaps. His head's throbbing, he's starving, and Tanger's  _ pity  _ isn't going to help any of that. Fuck. He's better than this, he knows how to lie, he knows how to fake it; why the  _ fuck  _ had he let that slip? “Just — I don't want to talk about it. I appreciate your concern, and Duper and Flower's concern, and  _ everyone's  _ concern, but I'm  _ fine  _ and I don't need to be fucking babysitted and cajoled into talking about my feelings.”

 

But Tanger's looking at him, confused and uncertain, shocked and pitying, and this is exactly what Sid didn't want. Doesn't need.

 

Tanger opens his mouth, shuts it. Licks his lips. “I…I didn't know. I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

 

Sid swallows. “It's nothing. It's just — it's nothing, okay? You don't have to be worried.”

 

Tanger runs a hand through his hair. “So the whole time we've been joking about, like, soulmates and shit, you've been. Keeping this in.”

 

Sid clenches his jaw. “I just told you it's nothing. It doesn't matter.”

 

“Doesn't — of _course_ it matters,” Tanger says, brow furrowed. “I don't get why you didn't tell us. We would never have made those jokes or — ”

 

“Because I don't want you guys to treat me differently! Jesus, Tanger, I didn't tell any of you because none of you would understand and just stare at me with — pity, and look — ” He gestures in Tanger's direction. “You're doing it now.” Sid sighs after a moment, watching as Tanger tries to marshall his face into something that doesnt say  _ You poor soul _ or  _ I'm so sorry,  _ isn't the expression found when consoling someone whose loved one has passed away. He runs a hand over his face. “I mean it when I say it's fine. Not everyone needs a soulmate.”

 

Sid  _ wants  _ one. God, he really fucking does. But he doesn't need it.

 

Tanger juts his chin, staring Sid down. “Everyone has one. Even you. Just because there isn't a — a name, or something, doesn't mean you don't have one. You're going to find someone, Sid.”

 

He says it with so much conviction, Sid almost believes him.

 

The key word there is  _ almost _ , because Sid doesn't believe it. It doesn't rouse him up, doesn't stop him feeling down. Doesn't do anything but remind him — as if he isn't reminded enough, already, everywhere, by movies and books and music and  _ society  _ — it isn't true, doesn't do anything but remind him how Geno walked away last night, how he's  _ always  _ going to walk away.

 

Tanger's still looking at him, as if waiting for him to agree, but Sid doesn't have it in him right now to lie. He shakes his head. “Please don't, Tanger. I know you're trying to help, but — just, don't.”

 

“Okay,” Tanger says after a beat, soft and quiet, as if his voice were a weapon and he’s signaling he’s putting it away, that it’s safe. As if Sid isn’t just  _ going  _ to break, he's already broken and Tanger’s here to clean up.

 

All it does is piss him off. He isn't fragile, for fuck's sake. He's lived with this his entire life; it isn't something he mourns every day. He doesn't wake up wondering,  _ What's wrong with me _ , because there isn't anything wrong with him.

 

But to Tanger — who met his soulmate young, married her, hasn't known anything else — it probably seems unfathomable, that this isn't tearing Sid apart on the inside.

 

No. Sid can deal with the no soulmate thing. He just has more trouble dealing with the no Geno thing.

 

Tanger's still quiet. After a moment, he cracks a smile. “I really fucked this up, huh?”

 

Sid huffs a laugh, anger draining out of him. “I mean, I wouldn't say you  _ didn't  _ fuck it up.” He straightens, rolling his shoulders and heading to the fridge. “I'm making breakfast. You want some?”

 

“You can tell me to fuck off, you know,” Tanger says, still smiling.

 

“I know.” Sid gives him a look. “I tell you to fuck off all the time.” He scans the contents of his fridge. “You want cheese in your omelette?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

Sid takes out all the stuff he needs and places it on the counter, tossing the tomato to Tanger. “You get to chop stuff, since I'm cooking.”

 

Tanger nods seriously. “Yes, captain.” He takes the cutting board Sid hands him, but pauses before taking the knife, saying, not quite looking at Sid, “Listen, I'm not… I'm not going to tell Flower and Duper about what you said. That's your decision.” He looks Sid in the eye. “I get why you don't talk about it. I also think that, if you want someone else to know, you should be able to explain it yourself.” He shifts, waving the knife in the air. “I really don't think  _ this  _ was the way you had pictured telling people about it, if you've pictured it at all.”

 

Sid ducks his head, fiddling with the carton of eggs. “Thanks, Tanger.” He clears his throat. “Really appreciate it.”

 

Tanger jerks a nod, again avoiding Sid's gaze. “No problem, man. I, uh.” He lets out a soft laugh, self-deprecating, as he methodically starts chopping up the tomato. “I've definitely been in a position where I said shit I didn't want anyone to know and had that person spread it around. 'S a shitty thing to do.”

 

Sid's quiet for a bit, whipping the eggs into oblivion as he thinks, thinks, thinks about what he should say. “Sorry. That sounds horrible.” He looks at Tanger, but Tanger's still focused on chopping vegetables up. “Sorry you had to go through that.”

 

“Ah,” Tanger says, shrugging, “whatever. It was a learning experience.” He glances at Sid, a hint of a smile on his face. “Helped build character.”

 

“If you say so,” Sid says.

 

“I do,” Tanger says, neatly swiping the tomato into the bowl of eggs Sid's prepared. He meets Sid's gaze. “But you already have enough character, so I think we're good.”

 

Sid ducks his head. He turns around, switches on the flame for the stove top, sets a pan. “Thanks.” He swallows, still pretending he's absorbed with the stovetop. “Sorry I didn’t tell you guys.”

 

“Sorry you felt like you couldn’t.”

 

Neither of them say anything, the sound of the flame hissing.

 

“You’re gonna be okay, though, right?” Tanger asks quietly.

 

Sid turns around to find Tanger looking at him earnestly, almost as if he’s about to say,  _ Tell me where the shitty feelings are, I’ll go beat them up for you _ . “I’ll be fine,” Sid says, laughing.

 

He  _ will _ . He always is.

 

***

 

Sid is expecting to be ambushed the moment he steps into the locker room for practice the next day; dragged to the side, with French Canadians acting as a human shield from the outside world as they interrogate him. Or comfort him. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.

 

It doesn't happen, which makes him pause. He stands in the middle the room, his brow furrowed as he takes in the scene: Flower and Duper and Tanger getting ready, talking shit with Olli and Kuni and Dumo, and generally just… being normal.

 

He must stand there for a little too long, looking confused, because Geno pats him on the back, asking, “You remember how hockey work? Need help?”

 

Sid laughs. “If I did, I wouldn't ask  _ you _ .”

 

Geno's smiling at him. “Oh? Who you ask, then?”

 

“Olli, obviously,” Sid says, and Olli tosses him a smile as he walks past him.

 

“Yes, I  _ am  _ known for my scoring abilities,” he says, pulling on his gear and frowning when he realizes he’s wearing his jersey backwards.

 

“Best forward in town,” Dumo says, gear half-on, sitting with his cap backwards and a smirk on his face.

 

Olli takes his jersey off. “Yeah,” he says, voice muffled, and then his head pops through the neck, hair a mess. “Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, and…Olli Määttä,” Olli says.

 

Sid smiles, letting the conversation wash over him, and Geno squeezes his shoulder and ducks close to say, “We get food after.”

 

He's about to protest, but Geno has that look he gets when he's convinced there is absolutely no way he isn't going to get what he wants. To be the recipient of it is overwhelming enough it throws him off his rhythm, just for a bit, makes him pause and say, “Yeah, okay.”

 

Being the recipient of Geno's smile, his eyes alight, is a different kind of overwhelming. “Good!”

 

Sid smiles back, because there really isn't anything else he can do, and watches as Geno heads to his stall. Sid makes his own way to his own stall, a feeling in his gut telling him he’s going to regret committing to lunch with Geno.

 

He gets onto the ice before Duper, but as soon as Duper sets skate on ice, he zeros in on Sid and zooms toward him.

 

“We're grabbing lunch after,” he says as soon as he's in range, and then bumps into Sid. “And we are definitely going to talk about the shit that's happened in the last two days. Especially what you and Tanger talked about.”

 

“Sorry,” Sid says, “Geno's already told me that  _ we're  _ having lunch after.”

 

Duper frowns. “Oh.” Then, he starts to smile. “You two working your shit out?”

 

“No,” Sid says, and he tries not to glare, but he isn't sure how successful he is. “Because there isn't any shit  _ to _ work out.”

 

“Right. Okay,” Duper says. “Because friends respond 'If only’ —  _ very  _ seriously, if I might add — to another friend saying they're taking them home all the time.”

 

“Duper,” Sid says sharply.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Duper says, and he gives Sid a stick tap. “I'll stop. But we  _ are  _ going to talk eventually.”

 

Sid sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He still hasn't decided if he's going to tell Flower and Duper about this no-soulmate business, but part of him wants to. Tanger already knows; how much worse is it if Flower and Duper do, too? It’ll probably get them off his back regarding Geno, too.

 

Duper nods sharply. “Right. Good.” He shoves Sid. “Now stop being lazy, get back to practice.”

 

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” Sid says, and he's about to skate away when he notices the way Duper's looking at him — considering, careful. “What?”

 

Duper shakes his head. “Nothing.” He pauses, taking a quick breath in and releasing it slowly, shaking his head again. “I just don't get how you're so good at dealing with him.”

 

“I eat lots of fiber,” Sid says dryly, because he can't pretend he doesn't know what Duper means but he  _ also  _ isn't having this conversation right now, and then he skates away.

 

Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending on how you look at it — he ends up bumping right into Geno. Really, Geno is the one who bumps into  _ him _ .

 

“What you and Duper talk about?” Geno asks, bumping Sid's shoulder, and they're skating in tandem, side-by-side.

 

Sid snorts. “What, you're spying on me now? Watching my every move?”

 

“Always watch,” Geno says, voice pitched low, eyes dark and deep, and Sid feels pinned down, arrested. Then, Geno turns red and says quickly, “Know what I'm mean.”

 

Sid clears his throat. “Yeah, for sure.” He points to his left. “I, uh. Should go talk to — go run through some plays with… them.” He has no idea if anyone is where he's gesturing, but if he stays near Geno for much longer, he's going to end up saying something embarrassing. The talk with Tanger has Sid feeling — things he really shouldn't be.

 

Geno nods. “Yes.” They both slow to a stop, and Geno jerks his hand to the right. “Should go, too.”

 

“Right.”

 

They both stare at each other for a bit. Geno ducks his head first, saying, “Okay, bye,” really quickly and then skating away without waiting for a response.

 

Sid can't help the way he smiles, because it's just — so Geno. And Sid's been doing this long enough he's realized the futility in trying to force himself to  _ not  _ find everything Geno does endearing.

 

Geno is Geno, and Sid is helpless against that.

 

***

 

They go for steak.

 

When they're seated, Sid's looking through the menu and about to let Geno know he's ready to order, but he looks up to find Geno already looking at him. Geno starts pretending he was concentrating on the menu, but Sid isn't fooled. “What?”

 

Geno looks at him, as if coming out of deep thought. “Hmm?”

 

Sid gives him an unimpressed look. “Why'd you wanna grab lunch?”

 

Geno shrugs. “Just talk.” He leans forward, raising his eyebrow. “Friends do this.”

 

“Maybe I just have really shitty friends, so I'm not used to it,” Sid says, elbows on the table.

 

Geno tries very hard to not smile, but he breaks and leans back. “Bullshit. I'm best friend.”

 

He holds Geno's gaze as he says, “Yeah, you are.” Flower, Duper, and Tanger are his best friends, but Geno's up there, too — a very different kind of best friend.

 

Geno's smile gets larger, verging almost on goofy.

 

“But that doesn't mean I don't think you didn't drag me out here for some reason.”

 

Geno scoffs. “ _ Drag _ ? I'm pay for meal, want to talk, have some fun — say it's  _ drag _ ?”

 

“What? You're not paying for my meal,” Sid says, because if Geno does, it makes this that much closer to what a date would look like, and that's — not an avenue Sid wants to go down.

 

“I'm drag, I pay.”

 

“You're not — ” Sid narrows his eyes. “Stop changing the subject. What did you wanna say to me?”

 

Geno's playing with the edge of the menu, flicking the small bent plastic corner back and forth, back and forth. “Very small thing. At bar. Think you say something, when I'm say I take you home.”

 

Geno's watching Sid carefully for a reaction, but he won't find one. Sid knows how to hide his surprise, panic, because  _ fuckfuckfuckfuck.  _ “Oh, really? I don't really remember, honestly. I had a lot to drink.”

 

“…Oh.” Geno shifts. Nods. “Okay.”

 

Sid's heart is racing. “Whatever I said, I probably said it as a joke.”

 

“Yeah? Not funny, so make sense you say as joke.”

 

Sid rolls his eyes, forcing himself to breathe normally. In, out. “Clever,” he says, and he waits, hoping Geno changes the subject.

 

Geno sighs, as if dealing with Sid is  _ such  _ a burden, and then picks up the menu, looking through it as if he doesn't already know exactly what he's going to get — what he gets every time.

 

The waiter comes by to take their order, and then they're left with just themselves, no menus to use as tools of deflection and distraction.

 

“So, how're your parents doing?” Sid asks after a beat, and Geno lights up, sitting straighter, smile on his face.

 

“Mama tell me about neighbors, say it's like soap opera…”

 

And Sid sits, taking in the animated way Geno's telling the tale, fondness growing with every dramatic hand gesture he makes, every dumb joke he tells, until that fondness overtakes him and is all he can feel.

 

They eat their meal, Sid telling Geno about his own parents, about Taylor, and Geno laughs at all the right places and asks all the right questions.

 

By the time they're done with the food, they're both smiling widely at each other, and for a second, Sid thinks about saying something like,  _ I love spending time with you,  _ or,  _ We should do this more often _ , or,  _ I don't really know what love is, but I know I love you _ .

 

What he actually says is: “So, just so we're clear — we're splitting the bill.”

 

Geno tries to stare him down before sighing, “Can't argue, you won't listen.”

 

Sid's smug as he asks for the bill, setting down his credit card and informing the waiter that they'll be splitting the bill. The waiter nods, about to take it, before Geno says, “Wait! Sorry, think wrong card, can have back?”

 

Geno hands it back after fixing his mistake, and when the waiter brings it back, Sid goes to get his card…only to find it isn't there, because Geno's tapping it against the table, smirking at Sid.

 

“Are you serious?” Sid snatches it back, looking around, hoping to call the waiter back because  _ no _ .

 

“Yes. Say can't argue, never say agree.” He shrugs, still smirking, excessively pleased with himself. “Not my fault you not listen.” He kicks Sid in the ankle to get his attention, since Sid's still looking around, and says, “Leave it. Don't make scene. You pay next time.”

 

Sid glares at him, stuffing the card in his wallet. “What makes you think there's gonna be a next time?” 

 

Geno's smugness as he says, “Don't think, know,” shouldn't be something Sid finds unbearably attractive.

 

Geno's hard to stay mad at. That isn't a fact Sid is interested in advertising.

 

They both get up and leave, Sid staying a few paces ahead of Geno. Before they get to their cars, Geno stops Sid with a hand on his arm.

 

“Hey,” he says, and Sid turns around at him, ready to tell him to let go, but finds Geno looking like a kicked puppy. “Really piss off?”

 

Whatever sprout of anger Sid had retained shrivels up and dies. “No.” Geno looks unconvinced. “Okay, I  _ was _ , a little, but I'm seriously not anymore.”

 

Geno now looks like a very happy puppy. “Good.” He pauses, and he's got his  _ I'm going to say something really fucking annoying because I think I'm hilarious  _ face on.

 

Sid points a finger at him. “Don't ruin it.”

 

Geno lets him go, raising his hands, palms out. “Not say anything.”

 

“Let's keep it that way.”

 

And then, they're back to staring at each other. The silence isn't tense, but it isn't comfortable.  _ Charged _ isn't the right word, either. It's like the moment before a big reveal, where you're waiting, imagining what's behind the curtain, too afraid to talk and ruin the hush, except the reveal never comes; you're just stuck in the perpetual prolongation of the waiting.

 

Sid doesn't know what the fuck it means. He isn't even sure he  _ wants  _ to know.

 

“Why'd you do it, anyway, if you thought it'd actually piss me off?” Sid says, because he really can't take more of the silence.

 

Geno blinks at him. “Why change card?”

 

Sid nods.

 

“Maybe I just want know for sure you eat with me again.”

 

Sid snorts. “Yeah fucking right.”

 

“Really!” He leans forward a little, cocky. “It work, no?”

 

Sid's about to say no, but something in Geno's expression — a little uncertain; nervous, even — makes him stop and say: “Yeah.” It makes him want to kick himself because  _ no _ , he can't be having these… psuedo-dates with Geno.  _ Especially  _ if this whole paying for each other’s meals is going to be a thing.

 

Geno may not intend them that way — no doubt, he's just being friendly; he's like this with everyone — but Sid's brain isn't that great at differentiating, apparently, because there have been four separate occasions on which Sid has wanted to pull Geno in and kiss him.

 

That's four more than normal — four more than acceptable.

 

Geno's smile turns a little shy. “Yes?”

 

Sid's head's on autopilot as he nods.

 

“Good!” Geno squeezes Sid's shoulder as he says, all warm and friendly, “Bye, Sid.”

 

“Bye,” Sid says, and then he turns and more or less runs back to his car before he does something  _ else  _ stupid. Like propose.

 

While adjusting the mirrors, he pauses for a moment, taking in his reflection, and asks: “What the fuck are you doing?” 

 

***

 

Duper calls to let Sid know they're going to lunch.

 

Sid pauses halfway between rinsing his plate. “Oh?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Yes,” Duper says. “You and Geno had your little date — ” Sid winces because Duper's hitting a little too close to home “ — a couple days ago, so I get you today. I'm gonna be there in about thirty minutes. Good?”

 

“I just ate.”

 

“You can eat some more.”

 

Sid sighs. “Yeah, fine. See you in a bit.”

 

“Wow,” Duper says drily. “You sound so excited, you should — ”

 

Sid hangs up and finishes rinsing his plate, lips pressed together as he thinks about what he's going to say. They won yesterday, so Sid’s in a pretty good mood. Geno had been breathtaking, as usual. Sid hadn’t been half-bad, either.

 

He still doesn’t know whether he’s going to tell Duper, though. He’s still deciding as he puts the dishes away, gets his stuff; still deciding as he gets Duper's  _ I'm outside _ , locks his front door; still deciding as he slides into his seat, sees Duper.

 

He only realizes what his decision is as he says: “I don't have a soulmate. That's what the thing with Tanger was all about.”

 

The smirk falls from Duper's face, his mouth parting, eyebrows drawing together. “What?”

 

Sid shrugs, twisting to get his seatbelt on, using it as an excuse to avoid looking at Duper as he repeats, “I don't have a soulmate.”

 

“Oh.” Duper takes a breath. “Okay.” He nods. “I'm assuming you mean this literally and not in a 'I'm never going to find mine' way?”

 

Sid stares, hoping his expression conveys exactly how dumb the question is.

 

“Yeah, that's what I thought.”

 

“I'm pretty sure you were here to try and get me to admit Geno was my soulmate, so I thought I'd let you know,” Sid says, but Duper isn't really listening, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

 

“Do you know who Geno's soulmate is? Or even if he has one?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“…Yeah, okay, that's fair.” He opens his mouth again, but shuts it, shaking his head. “You know what? I need to do this over food, because  _ I  _ haven't eaten yet.”

 

“Well, you're the one sitting in the driver's seat.”

 

“Thanks, I was confused for a moment.”

 

“You seem to need the obvious stated today.”

 

Duper does the necessary sarcastic laugh, but other than that, they're both silent as Duper drives them to the restaurant. Sid keeps waiting for Duper to say something, but they're seated at the table and all Duper's given him is silence, coupled with the occasional bewildered look.

 

“Well?” Sid says, irritated, menu laying flat on the table. He isn't going to pretend he doesn't know what he's getting. “Are you going to say anything?”

 

Duper looks up from his menu. “Jesus, give me some time to process. You've derailed my entire pep talk.”

 

“What was your pep talk?”

 

“There was a lot of talk about soulmates and destiny. Obviously, that doesn't apply anymore.”

 

“Okay, but before you try thinking of a new one, I just wanna let you know: I'm not going to say anything to Geno, ever, and I'm not changing my mind.”

 

“So you admit there  _ is  _ something to say!”

 

“…You already knew that.”

 

“Yeah, but I thought it would take a lot more work to actually get you to admit it aloud. You have to celebrate the small victories, Sid.”

 

The waiter comes to take their order before he can continue, but as soon as she leaves, Duper pins him with a serious look and says, “Now, what's this nonsense about you not saying anything, ever.”

 

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Sid says, and he means it.

 

Duper sits back. “Why?”

 

He's had  _ a lot  _ of time to think about this. “I'm not Geno's soulmate.” Because one-sided soulmates  _ are  _ a thing. Sid’s heard some... pretty painful stories. “I know he believes in that shit because I remember him mentioning it, like, a little bit ago. If I  _ was  _ his soulmate, there's no way he wouldn't have told me by now — you know how he is.

 

Even  _ if  _ he's in love with me — and that's a  _ big  _ if — it would never work out, okay. He definitely has a soulmate, and I'm not the one, so he'd just… end up leaving me for them. And he's  _ team _ , I can't risk fucking up the entire dynamic for some desperate attempt at ‘love,’ Duper. This is bigger than me.”

 

Duper's silent, just staring at Sid.

 

Sid shifts in his seat, taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair. He sets it on the table before realizing, no, he wants it on, and spends longer than needed adjusting the brim to avoid Duper's gaze.

 

“Judging by your face, I'm guessing you disagree?” he says when the silence starts getting to him. Fucking Duper. He knows how to play Sid too well.

 

Duper takes a slow breath. “I think…” He meets Sid's eyes, uncertain, before straightening, determined. “I think you're using all these reasons as excuses, because you don't want to admit you're terrified of putting yourself out there, only to get rejected — terrified of having a relationship with Geno.”

 

“Fuck you,” Sid spits out. “I'm not  _ scared _ . Those are all perfectly valid — ”

 

“I'm not saying they aren't valid,” Duper says. “I just think they aren't the main reasons. Not to mention, I think you're pretending you know Geno a lot better than you actually do. How do you know he would have told you, if you were his soulmate? How do you know he would leave you, if you ended up in a relationship and you weren't?” Duper shrugs. “If you can claim that's what he's going to do, I can claim the opposite, and both of us are equally right.”

 

Duper's calm, collected, laying out a rational thought process, but all Sid can hear is  _ you're terrified _ echoing through his head. “You're not right.  _ I'm  _ right. And it's really fucking easy for you to just — sit there and judge. You're not the one risking your neck, here. And I'm the captain, I can't just ignore what that means.”

 

“You and Geno are professionals. Even if everything went to hell, you'd be able to handle it.” Duper holds up a hand as he sees Sid about to say something. “Look, you're right, it's easy for me to sit here and judge, but you have to at least admit this to yourself, Sid: You're scared of taking the risk, and you're using all these reasons to rationalize that away.”

 

Sid glares at Duper for a bit before turning his head to the side, jaw clenched tightly, breathing through his nose, trying to calm himself down. “I'm not scared.”

 

Before Duper can reply, the waiter arrives with their food. Sid's so, so tempted to get up and walk away, but it would be too much of a scene — he doesn't want to end up reading articles about himself throwing a tantrum tomorrow.

 

“Sid,” Duper says after a moment of Sid very loudly ignoring him.

 

Sid's face is blank as he pauses in the middle of a bite, saying, “Yes?”

 

Duper frowns at him. “Listen, you don't have to agree immediately, but I want you to at least think about what I said. Don't… don't sabotage your relationships before they even have a chance of growing.”

 

“Maybe I should've sabotaged  _ this  _ one,” Sid mutters, because  _ fuck  _ Duper. It isn't fear. People without soulmates don't find love, unless it's temporary. Not because they  _ can't _ , but because no one else believes it's possible — no one else is willing to give it a chance.

 

“Soulmates are — great, yeah. But love doesn't automatically happen between you and your soulmate, and that isn't the only place it  _ can  _ happen. If… that makes sense.”

 

Sid's quiet for a beat. “When did you and Carole-Lyne start dating?”

 

Duper furrows his brow. “A while back. What does that have to do with anything?”

 

“Were you dating someone else when you met her? Didn't you break it off with your girlfriend to be with Carole-Lyne?”

 

“…Yes.” Duper clears his throat. “I know where you're going with this, but — ”

 

“And you broke it off because you knew Carole-Lyne was your soulmate and your then-girlfriend wasn't, right? Even though you loved her?”

 

Duper shift in his seat. “That's — yeah, kinda. But — ”

 

“With all due respect, Duper,” Sid says, setting his jaw, “I really don't think you can sit there and lecture me about ‘looking past soulmates’ when you gave everything up for yours.”

 

“That's…yeah.” Duper sighs, staring at his plate as he says softly, “That's fair.”

 

They're both quiet, not looking at each other.

 

“It's… it's never been a question of  _ could  _ Geno love me,” Sid says, tracing the swirls of wood in the table with his finger. “It's a question of: Will he stay, no matter what?”

 

“I've never really had to think about that,” Duper says, “so you're right — I'm probably not the person to sit here and lecture you about it. I just. I want you to be happy.”

 

Sid shrugs, swallowing down the emotion welling up in his throat. “You don't need a relationship to be happy.”

 

“No,” Duper says, “but you want one.”

 

Sid doesn't answer.

 

“This, uh.” Duper huffs out a laugh. “This did not go as well as planned.”

 

Sid cracks a smile. “You guys are 0-2. And, well.” He takes a sip of water. “I appreciate it.”

 

Sid waits for a bit, wondering if Duper's going to try and continue, but when Duper resumes his meal, Sid decides it's okay to let his guard down and resumes his own.

 

“So, Tanger knows, I know…are you going to tell Flower?” Duper says.

 

“Probably,” Sid says after he's swallowed. “You can. He's gonna know something's up the moment he sees you or Tanger, and it's better to just tell him rather than have him bother me about it.”

 

Duper nods. He's got  _ hear me out  _ written all over his face, so Sid isn't surprised when he says, “Okay, I swear, just one more thing and then I'll drop it.”

 

Sid makes a  _ get on with it  _ motion with his hand.

 

“Do you…do you think Geno loves you? Right now?”

 

Sid chokes on the bite of steak, coughing hard enough his eyes water, waving off Duper's concern. He takes a couple sips and clears his throat. “ _ What _ ?”

 

“You said that it was never a question of  _ could  _ he love you. Does that mean you think he does?”

 

“No.” His answer's clipped, flat.

 

Geno may  _ like  _ him, sure, maybe even in a not-so-platonic way, but love? No. Geno's probably just lonely. He recently broke it off with Oksana — again — and Sid knows he isn’t good with loneliness. Sid doesn't think he's being taken advantage of, but he also knows better than to read into the glances, the touches, the expressions.

 

It’s always temporary. A stepping stone at best.

 

Duper considers Sid. “Okay.” He opens his mouth, but Sid points at him with his fork.

 

“You said you were gonna drop it after that.”

 

Duper exhale's loud and drawn out. “Yeah. I guess I did. Consider it dropped.”

 

Sid can hear the  _ for now _ he's left off, because there's no way Duper's going to let this go.

 

“So,” Sid says, “how’re the kids?”

 

Duper lights up. Sid sits back and lets Duper affection for his family wash over him.

 

***

 

It's less than a week before Geno calls him up to ask: “Go for dinner today?”

 

Sid's heart is thumping in chest.  _ Dinner _ . That's worse than lunch. “Dinner? Y'know, that's more expensive than lunch.”

 

“So?”

 

“You only paid for lunch.” Does it sound like he's flirting? It sounds like he's flirting. He should stop. “Meaning I'm going to be paying more. Hardly sounds fair.”

 

“I buy you next two lunch, then. And dinner. Buy dessert, too.”

 

Unbidden, Sid thinks,  _ I know something else we could do for dessert _ , then makes a face at himself because  _ really _ . “Deal. Where do you wanna go?”

 

“You choose.”

 

Sid rolls his eyes. “You're just going to veto all of my suggestions.”

 

“I won't!”

 

“Okay, how about Italian?”

 

Geno makes an unenthusiastic noise.

 

“Chinese?”

 

Geno sighs.

 

Sid frowns. “Well, you pick then.”

 

“ _ Sid _ .”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Sid mutters. “ _ French _ ?” he throws out sarcastically. “Maybe we could swing by Flower's.”

 

“Sid, be serious.”

 

“Sushi?”

 

“Hmm…think, yes.”

 

“7 sound good?”

 

“Sound great. You pick me up?”

 

Sid blinks. “You want me to pick you up?”

 

“More efficient.”

 

“But you hate how I drive.”

 

“Can say no.” He can hear Geno's frown.

 

“No, I didn't say that. I'll totally pick you up,” Sid says. He adds: “I'll pick you up at 6:15.” Which means Geno will be ready by 6:30, and they'll be able to make a seven o'clock reservation.

 

“Okay, sound good! Bye.”

 

“Bye,” Sid says and he hangs up. He taps the phone against his chin before looking for the number of that sushi restaurant Geno loves. He  _ hates  _ doing it like this, but he starts off with, “Hello, my name’s Sidney Crosby and I'm...” and, as always, there’s magically a spot open for his preferred time.

 

He feels kind of sleazy, so he gets up and decides it’s time to to something productive. He calls Pat and asks for all the different events Sid’s been invited to, picking out one for the children’s cancer ward this weekend.

 

He runs some errands, stuff he’s been putting off, and the day passes quickly. He doesn't realize how stressed out he is about what he's going to wear before he's standing in his closet, thinking,  _ Why the fuck do I only have T-shirts or suits? _

 

He can't wear a T-shirt. He also doesn't want to wear a button-down. The fact that he's obsessing this much over what to fucking  _ wear  _ pisses him off, so he picks a T-shirt out of spite.

 

It's a nice enough T-shirt. It'll work.

 

He leaves for Geno’s place and gets there at 6:14, parking and trying the doorknob before ringing the doorbell. Sure enough, it's unlocked. He lets himself in. “Hey, are you ready?” he calls out, already knowing the answer.

 

“Two minutes!” Geno yells back.

 

Translation: At least another fifteen.

 

Sid wanders into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, then wanders into the living room. He's about to plop down onto the couch, but a picture frame catches his eye.

 

As he gets closer, his suspicions are confirmed. Gritting his teeth, he studies it: It's Oksana and Geno, wrapped around each other and beaming. It's a nice picture, a  _ beautiful _ one, even; it screams  _ Hey, look! We're in love! _

 

It also means the two are back “on,” after a few months “off.”

 

A certain sense of satisfaction seeps into him, dark and ugly, because it's great proof of Sid's  _ Geno doesn't wanna be in a relationship with me _ theory. He's tempted to take a picture and send it to Duper, with  _ I told you so _ tacked on.

 

He doesn't, but it's a close call.

 

Forcing himself to stop staring, he goes back to the couch, glass in one hand and phone in the other, trying to pass time. Every five seconds, though, his eyes rove back to the frame, that sense of satisfaction turning bitter, almost; sour.

 

It isn't surprising, unexpected. It's predictable. Which is why the unease he feels is even more irrational, frustrating, because he should have  _ known _ .

 

The water in his glass sloshes around as he stands, suddenly needing to get out of the room. Staring at the frame isn't something that's going to help, isn't something he can stop himself from doing, isn't something that should make him feel anything.

 

He goes back to the kitchen, gulping down the water and then refilling it, gulping that down, too.

 

Leaning back against the countertop, he shuts his eyes for a second, reminding himself to get the fuck over the way he's acting. Geno has a girlfriend again; so what? It doesn't change anything about the way Sid's going to interact with Geno.

 

_ Get a fucking grip _ , he tells himself, and he hears Geno thudding down the stairs so he makes his way back to the front door, where Geno's waiting. He looks good. He  _ always  _ looks good.

 

Sid's regretting wearing a T-shirt now.

 

“Take so long, I'm wait forever,” Geno says, lips quirked.

 

Sid rolls his eyes. “Yeah.” He swings the keys around his finger once before clasping them tightly, nodding at the door and pushing his way past Geno. “Let's go, I'm starving.”

 

“Just wait for you,” Geno says, following Sid and locking the door behind him. Sid doesn't wait around for him and gets into his car, turns it on, waits for a moment as Geno curses and squints at his keys, trying to find the right one.

 

“Sorry, not know why all same,” Geno grumbles as he slides in.

 

Sid places a hand on Geno's headrest, twisting his body to look behind him as he backs out the driveway. “They're not; you just can't keep track.”

 

Geno scoffs. “How you know this?”

 

“I can see,” Sid says, throwing a quick, dry look at Geno before focusing on the road ahead, making sure his turn signal's on before taking the right turn, hands placed at 10 and 2. Yeah, there are no cars; yeah, there's no stop sign; yeah, he could drive with one hand, but it's still necessary. He doesn’t wanna somehow get in an accident, reading headlines that say  _ Hockey Star’s Hand-Eye Coordination Fails While Driving.  _ “Hockey kinda requires that.”

 

They bicker softly back and forth before settling into a comfortable silence, Geno looking out the window at the lights, Sid glancing at Geno.

 

His chest hurts a little, every time he does, and Sid tries his best to shove that feeling all the way down because he needs to fucking  _ stop. _

 

He'd realized he needed to get used to unrequited love pretty goddamn early, and the fact that all his hard work has been undone because — because, what? Alcohol and a few conversations? The fact that it's been undone because of that is, frankly, pathetic.

 

Geno sighs. “So pretty,” he says, still staring out the window.

 

“Beautiful,” Sid says, his gaze snagging on Geno before focusing ahead, onto Pittsburgh. “I'm so lucky to be here.”

 

A reminder, to himself. He has no room to complain, no room to feel sorry for himself — he lives in a great fucking city, gets paid a lot of money to do what he loves, has almost everything he's ever asked for.

 

Geno looks over to him, eyes soft. “Me too.”

 

Sid breaks down Geno's face, stores it into memory — the developing crow’s feet, the small-but-apparent smile, the sincerity and gratefulness in his eyes — for a rainy day or an unfortunate moment, a reminder of,  _ You at least get to have this _ , and can't help the way his own mouth quirks into a smile, the way he responds to Geno's sincerity with authenticity of his own. “Still blows my mind I get to do this for a living.”

 

Geno hums, looking away, and Sid relaxes a little more into his seat.

 

The silence extends, and maybe, for Geno, it's a comfortable silence, but for Sid, it's a maelstrom of  _ what if _ 's and  _ if only _ 's and  _ I wish _ 's.

 

Is it possible to regret the future?

 

He stays quiet, though, focusing on the present. Focusing on the fact that he has Geno, right now, that he has family and team and love and purpose.

 

It's enough. It's more than enough. It  _ should  _ be more than enough.

 

They make it to the restaurant with five minutes to spare, after they argue over where they should park, and the way the server's eyes light up is so, so familiar — Sid braces himself for a request for an autograph, a selfie with both of them, hoping it’s discreet enough that everyone in the vicinity isn’t alerted, but she asks for neither as she says, “Yes! Right this way, please,” guiding them through the crowd to a two-seat table, close in a way Sid hadn't expected.

 

“Your server will be right with you,” she says, clasping her hands and beaming at both of them before whisking away, leaving the two alone.

 

It's silent for a bit before Geno sets his elbows on the table, leaning in. “So…” he says, face completely serious. “Come here often?”

 

Sid cracks up, feeling the way his nose scrunches up, and Geno smiles, pride radiating off him.

 

“Guess you could say that,” he says. “There's this guy that really loves sushi who's always here, so I tend to stick around because of him.”

 

Geno hums. “Think that's stalk.”

 

Sid makes a face at him, unable to procure an answer because really, it  _ is  _ remarkably like stalking, the way he notices Geno.

 

Their server appears, as overly-friendly and enthusiastic as is required, and both of them give their order.

 

“Oh, and can I please get a fork?” Sid says, just before the server's about to leave.

 

“Sure thing!” he says, beaming, and turns on his heel.

 

Sid can feel Geno's smugness concentrated onto his forehead. “Shut up,” he says. Geno's a “chopsticks or nothing” kinda guy, and Sid isn't.

 

“Say nothing,” Geno says, faux innocent.

 

“Consider it a precautionary measure,” Sid says, eyes narrowing.

 

“What you mean?”

 

“Oh, um. It basically means, uh, when — ” Sid drops the explanation when he sees the amusement in Geno's eyes. “You  _ know  _ what it means.”

 

“No, please!” he says, propping up his chin on his fist. “Tell what word mean. Don't know English.”

 

“Oh, fuck off.” Sid's smiling too much for it to hold any real sting.

 

It devolves into a competition of who gets the last word — Sid does, obviously, no matter what Geno says — before turning to the silence Sid either loves or hates, depending on the day. Today, he loves it.

 

The food and drinks arrive, and Sid pours himself a too-large glass of wine. Their conversation as they eat — and as Sid refills his glass, again and again and again — is innocuous, playful and serious at the right moments, and it isn't until Sid's on his third drink he says, staring into the depths of his glass as he swirls the wine around, “So. You and Oksana, eh?”

 

It's been fighting to get out the entire time, and Sid expected to feel relief, maybe, a sense of gratefulness now that he's got it off his chest, but he just feels more anxious, his shoulders tight, voice low, heart unsteady.

 

Geno chews slowly before swallowing. “Yes.”

 

Sid nods sharply. “Good.” He swigs the last bit of drink in his glass. “You and her soulmates?”

 

He hadn't meant to ask, except he had. He's going to blame the alcohol, later, claim it was because he was too drunk when justifying it to himself, but the reality is that he  _ isn't  _ that drunk, he knows what he's doing.

 

Geno stops chewing completely for a bit, staring at Sid. It isn't something you ask — it's something far,  _ far  _ too personal. “…Yes.”

 

Sid lets out a small laugh through his nose, re-upping his glass. "Thanks for the confirmation.” He takes a sip — it would be a delicate sip, if anything Sid does could be delicate — and says: “You think you'll actually stay together this time?” He can't even blame alcohol for  _ that  _ one. It's out of line. “God, sorry,” he backtracks, eyes wide.

 

Geno's jaw is set, eyes boring into his plate. “Is okay,” he grits out.

 

“No, really, I'm so fucking sorry, I know it's gonna work out,” Sid says, and he hesitates before reaching out to squeeze Geno's hand. “It isn't something I should say, it was rude and invasive and — ”

 

Geno pulls his hand out from underneath Sid's, and Sid's throat seals shut, preventing the rest of his words from getting out.

 

He shakes his head. “Good question. We break up a lot, can understand why you ask.” He shoots a glance at Sid, mouth quirked, face drawn. “Know you ask because you worry.”

 

_ About myself _ , Sid wants to say.  _ I worry about myself, because I'm a selfish asshole, because I can't help thinking how much better  _ I  _ am for you, how much better  _ I  _ understand you _ . “I always worry. Doesn't excuse it.”

 

Geno shrugs. Doesn't come outright and say he agrees with Sid's assessment, but he usually doesn't. A lack of argument is the same as acceptance with Geno.

 

There's dead air between them, and  _ this  _ is exactly why Sid never brings shit like this up. He chews the inside of his cheek, flitting between studying Geno's hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, set face, and his own plate, the sushi long gone, his fork adorning the middle. He picks it up and pushes some of the garnish to the side, mouth twisting.

 

He doesn't know what the fuck he should say. He clears his throat and settles on: “I really think you guys are gonna work it out. I mean, you're soulmates, right? Means it's gonna work out.”

 

“If I want,” Geno says under his breath, and Sid stops playing around with his food and stares at him.

 

“Do you… not want it?” Hope is a weed, growing through every crack, crevice, cranny in Sid's defense, never eliminated no matter how hard he tries.

 

“No, do!” Geno says quickly. “Of course do.” He looks down, muttering, “Of course.”

 

Fortunately, reality is a strong herbicide. “Right, obviously,” he says, nodding. “So there's… no problem.”

 

“No problem,” Geno says, glaring. “Who say problem?”

 

“No one,” Sid hurries to say, eyes wide. “I'm just saying that there…isn't one.”

 

Geno's nod is stilted. “Yes.”

 

“Yeah.” The quiet conversations of couples around them, the soft  _ clink  _ of dishes being carted around, the mellow music; Sid hadn't realized how fucking  _ intimate  _ this place was until right now, when he realizes there's no way he can really escape this. So he goes with what usually works: “Sorry.” He hopes Geno sees the sincerity, because he really  _ is _ .

 

The contrition on Sid's face must convince Geno, because he lets out a soft breath and smiles faintly. “Know you not mean anything bad, Sid. I'm just…” He shrugs, tipping his head to the side and swinging his gaze over Sid's shoulder. “Worry.” He looks at Sid, as if begging him to understand. “Want this to work. Want be with her, y'know?”

 

Sid swallows. “Yeah, for sure.” He pauses, marshaling his expression, his voice. “It's gonna work out. You two were… made for each other.” He smiles. “Almost like you're soulmates or something.”

 

Geno laughs, and it sounds even better than it usually does. “I know. Very weird.”

 

Sid's smile stretches wider. He wants Geno to get his happily ever after, wants Geno to be as happy as possible, no matter the cost.

 

***

 

It was only a matter of time before Flower was going to make his rounds, so when he shows up at Sid's doorstep, smiling, Sid isn't even close to being surprised.

 

“For all you know, I could've been out running errands,” Sid says, stepping aside to let him in.

 

“Except I  _ did  _ know you  _ weren't _ ,” he says, raising his eyebrows. He heads straight to the kitchen, calling out behind him, “Hey, you have any food?”

 

“Not for you,” Sid says, arriving just in time to see Flower looking through his fridge.

 

“Sid,” Flower says, frowning. “Don't be mean. I came all this way to talk to you and you're not even willing to share food?”

 

“As if that's going to stop you,” Sid says, and Flower drops the facade.

 

He pulls out some pasta, a couple plates, starts piling it onto them, and then pushes one at Sid. He turns, muttering to himself, “Forks, forks, forks,” and makes a triumphant noise when he finds the right drawer, pulling a couple out and handing one to Sid.

 

“Not gonna warm it up?”

 

Flower shakes his head, leaning back against the counter, facing Sid as he takes a bite. “Too much work.”

 

Which is a valid point. Sid spears some pasta, brings it up to his mouth, but pauses before taking the bite, noting the way Flower's scrutinizing him. “What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Sid puts the forkful of pasta back down. “Obviously, it isn't nothing.” He'd expected Flower to ask about soulmates, about Geno; not for Flower to just  _ stare  _ at him.

 

“It's…” He's hunched over, pushing some pasta around on his plate. Glances up quickly. “I understand…” He sighs and set the plate down to the side, straightening, crossing his arms. “I understand why you thought you couldn't tell me, but a part of me doesn't? Like, was it something I did — ”

 

“No!” Sid cuts in. “No, god, nothing like that. It was just…” He waves at nothing. “Y'know. I didn't want you guys to treat me differently, or anything.”

 

Flower's quiet. “You didn't even tell me yourself.”

 

Sid looks at him, and Flower isn't returning the favor. “I… I'm sorry, I honestly didn't think it was — I mean. It's not really that big a deal?”

 

“Big enough a deal for you to not tell anyone,” he says pointedly.

 

“That's…yeah.” Sid shrugs, looking down at the countertop. “I don't have an excuse, I guess.” He makes sure to catch Flower's eye as he says, “I really am sorry. It doesn't mean that I don't, like,  _ trust  _ you. Of course I do. Really. There’s nothing else, so it won’t ever happen again.”

 

Flower examines him, nodding after a moment. “Yeah, okay.” He picks up his food again, raising his eyebrows at Sid. “So what's with this Geno business?”

 

Sid knows it means he's forgiven, because when Flower holds a grudge, he makes it  _ very  _ obvious. “What Geno business?”

 

Flower face says  _ Are you really trying that?  _ “You being in love with him.”

 

It's worse hearing it from someone else's mouth. “Oh. Yeah. That business.” He shrugs. “Don't know what you want me to say about it. I mean, it's. It's not gonna go anywhere. I'll get over it.”

 

“How do you know it's not gonna go anywhere?”

 

Sid forces himself to relax his jaw. “He's trying again.” He looks at Flower. “With Oksana.”

 

Flower's mouth forms an 'o' and he's quiet, as if carefully choosing his words. “Well, fuck.”

 

Sid lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

 

Flower's brow furrows. “Like, again? They're seriously trying it again? What is this, the fourth, fifth time?”

 

It's the fourth time. Fifth, if you count that time they decided to “try” only to fall apart a day after, which Sid doesn't. “Dunno, don't keep track.”

 

“Gotta give them props for never giving up, I guess,” he says, and then shoots Sid a guilty look. “Actually, let's not give them props. I take back the props. The props are now my property.”

 

“Yeah, well, when Geno's determined…” Sid shrugs. “You know what he's like. He, uh, seemed pretty serious this time.”

 

Flower hums. Sid can't tell if it's skeptical or sympathetic.

 

Sid eyes him. “You gonna try to talk me into making a grand romantic gesture and confessing everything, like Duper? Or maybe that I actually  _ do  _ have a soulmate, like Tanger, even though I really don’t?”

 

“Kinda sounds like you want me to convince you you're fucked.”

 

Sid spreads his arms, eyebrows shooting up. “I mean, I am, aren't I?”

 

Flower's smile is sharp. “Maybe a little.” It's replaced by a thoughtful expression, and a few moments later, he says, “I think… that you're way too certain about your future, because honestly, you don't know how things are gonna turn out. Life just…” He bunches his shoulders up near his ears before dropping them with a long exhale. “Happens. If you believe you're fucked, you  _ will  _ be, and you gain nothing by it, so why not believe you  _ won't  _ be fucked? What do you have to lose?”

 

Sid takes a moment to absorb what he's said. “So you're saying you want me to have hope?”

 

Flower makes a face. “I guess, yeah. But not, like.  _ Naive  _ hope.”

 

Sid kinda  _ wants  _ to tell him to fuck off — any hope is naive hope in this situation — but he stops himself because he also doesn't want to argue with Flower about this. “Makes sense.”

 

Flower laughs. “You think I'm talking out of my ass, stop lying.”

 

Sid sighs. “What do you want me to say?”

 

“Nothing.” He takes a bite of food and says, mouth still full, “You talk too much. Just listen and think about what I said before rejecting it.”

 

Sid's silent as Flower finishes up his food and rinses his plate off, his own meal untouched. He wonders how many times he's going to have to reiterate his decision before they'll stop trying to change it.

 

Flower comes up to him, squeezes his shoulder. “I'll tell them to back off,” he says softly, making sure to catch Sid's eye, “because it's your decision, and you're an adult, and you didn't ask for advice, and none of us can really understand the situation you're in. But if you ever  _ need  _ advice, or support, you know where to go.”

 

Sid has to take a moment to respond because for some reason, getting anything out of his throat is suddenly very, very difficult. “Thanks, Flower.”

 

He nods once, the seriousness and sincerity in his expression threatening to overwhelm Sid, a little. He smiles, then, and says, “Let's go out.”

 

“Where?” Sid says as he allows Flower to tug him forward.

 

“Don't know. We'll figure it out,” he says, and then he stops, faces Sid. “We always figure it out.”

 

Sid smiles at him. “Yeah, I know.”

 

***

 

This is pseudo-date number three, and Sid isn't any less confused than he was for the first two.

 

They've more or less finished their meals, waiting on dessert. Geno's swirling his beer around in his glass, staring at the way it moves, one arm stretched out against the chair next to him. His sunglasses are hooked in the v of his shirt, sun occasionally shining on him between clouds, and Sid's pretending he isn't ogling Geno.

 

He's about to try and crack a joke — this isn't a comfortable silence, this isn't an amicable silence, this is a melancholic silence — but Geno speaks first: “You believe in soulmate?”

 

Sid goes still, staring. “What?”

 

His mouth is twisted — not a frown, really, but close. When he looks at Sid, confusion and frustration written all over him, Sid has to shift in his seat, unsure what to do with that expression. “You believe in soulmate?”

 

So he hadn't misheard the first time. He opens his mouth and shuts it. “…What do you mean, believe in soulmate?”

 

Geno's expression is pinched, and then it goes blank. He looks away. “Nothing, never mind.”

 

As if Sid's going to let him get away that easy. “Geno, what do you mean?” he says, leaning forward, forearms resting on the table. He tries to keep his tone as non-confrontational as possible — Geno never really responds to aggression very well.

 

The muscle in Geno’s jaw jumps. He drinks the last of his beer, slamming the glass onto the table with a loud  _ thud _ , and exhales slowly through his nose.

 

“Geno,” Sid says softly, and Geno finally looks at him.

 

Sid sees his Adam's apple bob. “Mean… you think soulmate only one you love? Soulmate only person you  _ can  _ love?”

 

Sid has to calm his racing heart down, remind himself this doesn't mean  _ anything _ , Geno just needs encouragement. “Is this, uh. Is this about Oksana?”

 

Geno's nod is jerky. He's gone back to avoiding Sid's gaze.

 

“I mean… you love her, right?” Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ , what the fuck is his life, trying to convince the man he loves that he absolutely  _ should  _ pursue someone else.

 

“Yes.” It's clipped, quick.

 

Sid pushes down the emotion lodged in his throat so his words can get through. “And… you wanna be with her?”

 

“…Yes.” It's slower, like he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince Sid.

 

Or maybe Sid just wants to see it that way. “Then you should go for it. I mean, she  _ is  _ your soulmate. You love her, she loves you. You wanna make it work.” He really thinks he should get an award for this, a trophy he can put up on his mantle. The  _ You're a Fucking Idiot Who Just Wants to Make His Life Worse  _ award.

 

“Not answer question, Sid.” He pauses. “Who your soulmate?”

 

“I…” Sid intends to lie, he really does, but Geno's gaze dredges him, trapping the truth and pulling it out. “I, uh. Don't have one.”

 

Geno's brow furrows and then his face slackens, staring. “What?”

 

“I don't have a soulmate.”

 

“Wait.” Geno leans forward, grasps his forearm. He gestures the wristband surrounding Sid's left wrist, demanding, “What this, then?”

 

Sid snatches his hand back. “A wristband.”

 

Geno's still staring at Sid as if he's a stranger, done something so shocking he can't reconcile it with reality. “Why you not tell? Why lie?”

 

“Because it's none of your business,” Sid snaps, glaring at him. It's fucking embarrassing enough he's in  _ love  _ with Geno; he doesn't need to deal with Geno's confusion and pity regarding his soulmate situation. “And I didn't lie.”

 

“Hiding truth  _ is _ lie.”

 

Sid glares at him. He mulls the situation over, then says, “You know what? This isn't even about me, right now. I think you're getting this upset because you don't wanna talk about your own shit.”

 

Geno stares at him before letting out a bark of incredulous laughter. “Thanks for telling me what I feel, Sid.”

 

Sid shrugs, shoulders tense, lips pressed together. “Yeah, well.”

 

Geno narrows his eyes, leans forward. “You wrong. Angry because you  _ lie _ .”

Sid should say sorry. He should really just fucking apologize. Except he shouldn't, because it isn't any of Geno's business. “Right. Because me not telling you about something that’s  _ none  _ of your business is the same thing as lying.”

 

“ _ Is  _ my business, is important — “

 

“No, it isn’t. Doesn’t change anything.”

 

“ _ Does  _ change, change...”

 

Sid waits, eyebrows raised, for Geno to finish. When Geno doesn’t, he says, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

 

“Does change. Can’t explain.”

 

“Sure.” 

 

Geno scoffs, muttering something in Russian. It doesn't sound very flattering.

 

“What'd you say?” Sid says, glaring.

 

Geno raises his eyebrows. “Don't know in English,” he says coldly.

 

“Right, of course you don't,” Sid says. “That's convenient.” Sid doesn't mean it in a  _ Learn English _ way, but he knows it was wrong to say the moment he sees the hurt in Geno's face because — because he's already sensitive about his English, and it's so fucking frustrating when you can't find the words to express what you're thinking, and it isn't as if Sid's learned Russian or anything.

 

“I'm sorry,” Sid says quickly. “That was — Jesus, that was a shitty thing to say. I know you're…I know how hard it is.”

 

Geno isn't looking at him.

 

“Geno, I'm — I'm  _ really  _ fucking sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

 

“Then how you mean?”

 

“I just… I thought you  _ did  _ know, you just didn't wanna say it to me, and I thought you were lying — ”

 

“Yes, feel bad when someone lie, no?” Geno cuts in, sneering.

 

Sid opens his mouth, but he can't think of anything to say.

 

The muscle in Geno's jaw jumps as he examines Sid, challenging.

 

“I'm sorry. About — everything,” he says, then takes a moment to figure out how he's going to phrase the rest of it. “It was… I don't like people knowing I don't have a soulmate because they always look — always look at me as if something's wrong, as if I'm missing something, and I just. It gets old, having to hear them defend something I don't have a problem with.” He licks his lips. “And… obviously, I know it isn't fair of me to say anything about your English because, like — I can barely hold a conversation in French, and I've known it for a while, so I can't imagine having to sit there and talk about all this…” He gestures between them. “Talk about all this in my second language.”

 

“Is third language.”

 

Sid blinks at him. “What?”

 

“English is third language,” he says. “Russian, Polish, English. Can speak little bit German, Czech too.”

 

“Oh, wow, okay.” He doesn’t know how he hadn’t known that. Makes him wonder what else he doesn’t know. “That's, uh. That makes me even more of an asshole, huh?”

 

“You always asshole,” Geno says, tone biting.

 

Sid winces a little.

 

“…Not always asshole,” Geno amends, looking away. “I'm asshole, too, sometime.”

 

“A perfect match, eh?”

 

It's still tense, though, far too unsteady for Sid's liking.

 

“I'm sorry, too,” Geno blurts out, eyes wide. “You — you right, not my business, just get angry because…” He looks down. “Dunno. Really sorry, I'm asshole." 

 

Neither of them seem to know what to say next, and it's a relief when their server brings dessert out.

 

“And… here we are! Cheesecake for  _ you _ …” She sets the cheesecake in front of Sid. “And tiramisu for  _ you _ ,” she says, setting it down in front of Geno. “Let me know if you need anything else!”

 

They both thank her and then it's back to the awkwardness, apprehension. It hasn't felt like this between him and Geno since back when Geno first got here, barely able to speak, no idea what the cultural norms were.

 

“You don't have soulmate,” Geno says, studying his food. “Mean…you get to choose who you love, yes? Not told.”

 

Sid pauses. “I'm… not sure I understand.”

 

Geno looks up at him, hesitant. “Is like… Oksana my soulmate, so I'm…” He makes a face, pausing. “Oksana soulmate, so she is only person I can love.” He gestures at Sid. “You not have, so can love anyone.”

 

He's never thought of it like that. “I can love anyone, but I doubt they're gonna love me back if they have their own soulmate.” He doesn't say how bullshit the whole  _ I can only love one person  _ thing is.

 

Geno's quiet. “Maybe can.” He quickly glances at Sid then away. Swallows. Lets out a nervous laugh. “Is confusing, yes?”

 

“Frustrating.”

 

“Dumb.”

 

Sid laughs. “Yeah, I think that's the best description.” He lets the conversation die out, thinking about whether he should bring Oksana up.

 

Geno does it before he can. “Just… start talk about this because me and Oksana. Love, yes, but maybe not good at live together?” He bites his lip. “Don't know what — why not work.”

 

“It's…It can get complicated. Only way you can make it work is if you guys talk. Compromise.”

 

Geno sighs. "Yes. Know this. Just — try talk, is hard, you know? Always end up fight." He chews his lip. "Sometimes my fault. She know how to make angry." He smiles a little at Sid. "Maybe just need hear from someone else." 

 

Sid doesn't know what to say. “I'm sure it'll work out. You both just need to listen to each other.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What are, uh. What's the biggest problem you two are having?”

 

“She want stay in Russia, say I not home enough.” Pauses. “Not like mama.”

 

Sid is shit at playing therapist when it comes to stuff like this, but he can fucking try. He nods, hoping it's somehow comforting. “Yeah, that… that sucks.”

 

Geno smiles a little. “Yes.” He really hasn't eaten any of his dessert. “Just don't know,” he says, sighing.

 

Sid sighs in agreement. They slowly turn back to trivial topics of conversation, safe topics. Sid lets Geno pay.

 

He very carefully doesn't think about the implications of their conversation.

 

_ He's just frustrated _ , he tells himself.  _ Don't make a big deal out of it. _

 

He keeps it at bay through the rest of the day, only thinks about it when he thinks about  _ not  _ thinking about it.

 

When he goes to bed, though. Well. As always, the darkness shines a light on every doubt, fear — every  _ what if _ .

 

_ Maybe can _ .

 

What the  _ fuck  _ had Geno meant by that? He stares at the ceiling, purposefully avoiding looking at the time again and again and again.

 

_ Love, yes, but maybe not good at live together? _

 

Is Geno going to leave her, for good? Does he not want to live with her?

 

Sid groans aloud and throws his forearm over his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut because he needs to fucking  _ sleep _ , and he needs to stop thinking about this because  _ nothing  _ is going to come of it.

 

His phone buzzes on his bedside table, and he debates reading the text. Blue light's bad for you, when you're trying to go to sleep.

 

But, obviously, he isn't going to sleep anytime soon, so he picks up the phone and squints as the screen lights up, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust before he opens the text.

 

It's from Geno.  _ Thanks for talk about oksana really help))))) _

 

He reads it, gripping the phone tightly, then reads it again then again.  _ Well, there you fucking go _ , he thinks. He slowly types out:  _ Glad I could help :) _ , then erases the smiley. Then erases the entire message. Locks his phone, puts it away.

 

He knows Geno saw those typing bubble things, but he doesn't care right now. He shuts his eyes.

 

***

The next day, he avoids Geno as much as he can, but Geno tracks him down during morning skate, smiling.

 

“Good sleep?”

 

“Yeah, not bad,” Sid says. He’d gotten maybe a couple hours.

 

Geno nods. “Just want say... again, thanks. About yesterday.”

 

Sid hopes his smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “I’m glad I could help, man.”

 

Stupid. Sid had been  _ stupid _ .

 

“Good friend,” Geno says, and then he’s called away.

 

Sid stares at where he’d been, blinking a couple times, before snapping himself out of it.

 

He lets out all his anger — hurt? — out through hockey, as usual, channeling it into something productive, something he can  _ use _ . The game that night is good, makes Sid  _ feel _ good, because he plays well. Puts up four points, two of them goals. They win, and Sid feels something settle inside him.

 

As Sid’s getting ready to go home after talking to the media, Duper spots him.

 

“Hey, wait up!” he says, and Sid stops, turns to meet Duper.

 

“What’s up?” Sid asks.

 

“Wanna get lunch tomorrow? You, me, a couple of the guys.”

 

Which means Flower and Tanger, probably. He wonders if they have something like a Sid-sense, because they always seem to just  _ know  _ when shit has gone wrong and are immediately there.

 

He thinks about declining, except that would arouse more suspicion and they'd insist on figuring out what was wrong, so he agrees.

 

Duper claps him on the back and says, “Awesome.”

 

Sid nods and goes home, crawling into bed. He sleeps better that night, so the next morning, he feels better about lunch — thinks he’s going to be able to handle it without talking about anything real.

 

A couple hours later, sitting at a table and pretending to pay attention as his mind replays how he felt, reading Geno's text; how he felt, thinking about Geno's words; how he felt, realizing that he was,  _ again _ , hoping for the impossible.

 

None of them confront him about it, but he can see the way they keep glancing at him, words just stilted enough he knows they're  _ dying  _ to ask, so halfway through the meal, during a lull, he sighs and says: “Go ahead. You can ask.”

 

“We don't want you to feel — ” Flower starts.

 

“What happened?” Tanger cuts in.

 

“There's this thing called  _ tact _ , you know,” Flower says.

 

Tanger waves him off, still staring intently at Sid. “What happened? Something with Geno?”

 

Duper's just studying him. Waiting.

 

Sid fiddles with his plate.“We, uh.” He swallows. “We had lunch couple days ago. Talked about soulmates. I told him I didn't have one, and he… said some stuff that kinda confused me, a little.” He takes a breath, swallowing again even though his mouth is so, so dry. “He told me him and Oksana were having trouble? That he loved her but maybe couldn't live with her? And I, y'know, tried to, like, be a good sounding board.” He pauses. His voice is a little hoarse as he says, “He texted me that night thanking me for the help, because apparently it worked.”

 

They take a moment to absorb his announcement.

 

“Fuck,” Tanger says lowly.

 

“What did he say that confused you?” Duper asks, voice gentle in a way that usually pisses Sid off. Not today, though.

 

“Just…” He shrugs. He hasn't looked at any of them as he's been talking. “He said that I was lucky? That I could choose whoever I wanted to love. And I said it didn't matter, since someone with a soulmate would never really love me back, and then he looked at me and said maybe they could, and it was — ” He sighs, leaning back in his chair, passes a hand over his face. “It was confusing. He's confused. I'm confused.  _ Everyone's  _ confused.”

 

“I'm guessing you wouldn't be okay with me talking to him,” Tanger says after a beat.

 

Sid jerks his head in his direction, the first time he's made eye contact with any of them after the conversation. “No. Jesus.  _ No _ .”

 

Tanger sets his jaw. “I wouldn't give him a fucking shovel talk or anything, I'd just ask what the fuck he meant — ”

 

“ _ No _ , Tanger. Don't fucking make me regret telling you guys.”

 

That shuts him up.

 

“I'm sorry, Sid,” Flower says quietly.

 

Sid swallows. Nods.

 

“I…” Duper trails off without saying anything, sighs. “Fuck, man.”

 

“Basically,” Sid says. It's almost funny, if he's honest with himself. “Who knew I was such a great relationship counselor, eh?”

 

“You doing okay?” Tanger asks. When Sid looks at him, he says, “Yeah, okay, dumb question.”

 

“Anything we can do to help?” Flower says, and Sid turns his gaze to him.

 

“Unless you have some sort of magical way to get over him, I don't think so,” he says, smiling a little. He shrugs. “Whatever. Playoffs are almost here, it'll be a good distraction.”

 

There’s barely time to eat, let alone think about relationship woes during the playoffs. He’s looking forward to it.

 

He surveys their faces. Part of him resents how worried they looked, but a larger part of him feels warm.

 

“Playoffs end,” Duper pointed out.

 

“Well, hopefully I'll be able to drown my sorrows by drinking alcohol from the Cup.”

 

Tanger shrugs. “It might work. The Cup  _ is  _ the answer to everything.”

 

Sid laughs. “That it is.” He's still smiling as he says, “I'll be fine, guys.”

 

Duper purses his lips, looking to Flower, Tanger. "Do you believe him?" he says in French.

 

Flower hums, tipping his head to the side. "Not sure. He isn't very good at self-awareness, you know."

 

“I can speak French, guys,” Sid says, unimpressed with all of them.

 

"See? He thinks he can speak French," Flower says.

 

"It  _ is  _ rather tragic," Tanger says. "Maybe we should humor him, you know? So he doesn't do anything drastic."

 

“Do you, like,  _ want  _ me to walk out?” Sid says, putting his hands on his table as if he's about to push himself up, but everyone knows he isn't going to actually do it. Frankly, he's glad they're making fun of him. “Because I'll walk out.”

 

Duper grins at him, switching back to English. “Oh, sit down. Relax. Let us have a little fun.”

 

“Captain No-Fun.”

 

“Hey, now, Flower, that isn't fair. Sid's fun! He's… really fun. As fun as those sunglasses he's got hanging on his neck.”

 

“You know what, Tanger? You're right.” Flower shakes his head. “Can't believe I didn't see it. Those sunglasses? Especially if paired with his stylish crocs? Just  _ screams  _ 'fun.'”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sid says. “Make fun of me while you can. When both of you end up spending all your money on overpriced clothing and accessories, we'll see who's laughing.”

 

“Still us, Sid,” Tanger says. “Because we'll be  _ fashionable _ , and, really, that's what matters in life. Aesthetic.”

 

“Oh,  _ fashionable _ ? Is that what the kids are calling ridiculousness these days?” Sid settles in, having done this routine so many times before.

 

When Flower comes back with, “God, you don't even have to  _ wait  _ until you turn eighty, you're already there. Gonna yell at me to get off your lawn, next?” Sid grins, his response on his tongue.

 

He almost forgets about Geno.

 

Almost.

 

***

 

They get swept in the first round.

 

It hurts. It fucking  _ hurts _ , always hurts the same fucking amount, and Sid's angry, thinking — was he off his game because of Geno? Because he couldn't help fucking stop thinking about him?

 

He'd let them all down. Flower, Geno, Duper, Tanger, Kuni — all of them.

 

He's a little numb as he packs up, shoving clothes into his suitcase. He's going home for a bit. Go fishing, take some time away from Pittsburgh, from everything here.

 

From Geno.

 

He takes a break as he gets half his packing done, eating a late lunch, indulging in a book that leads to using up two, three hours of his afternoon.

 

It's six when his phone buzzes, still light outside. He picks it up, reads the text. His breath hitches.

 

_ She leave _

 

Sid swallows. Setting the book to the side, not bothering to bookmark his place, he fumbles with his phone as he types out:  _ I'm sorry.  _ Then:  _ Want me to come over? _

 

Instantly:  _ If you want drink _

 

Drinking sounds like a great fucking idea right now, actually.

 

_ Okay I'm on my way _

 

He takes a breath, asks himself,  _ What the fuck are you doing _ , before he grabs his keys, wallet, and he's at Geno's in about ten. He rings the doorbell and he doesn't have to wait more than five seconds before Geno opens it.

 

The flushed cheeks, the hazy eyes, the alcohol on his breath — it's obvious he's gotten into the vodka already.

 

He doesn't say anything, just steps aside to let Sid step in, and Sid shuts the door behind him.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

“Hi,” Geno says, blank. He turns and pads to the living room, Sid trailing behind him.

 

There's a bottle of vodka open, half-empty — Jesus, Sid hopes it wasn't  _ full  _ a couple hours ago — and two shot glasses. Geno pours up to the brim, handing Sid one, and they both  _ clink  _ the glasses together, Sid saying, “Cheers,” and Geno saying, “Будем,” as they both take the shot.

 

Geno immediately pours another. Sid's about to protest due to habit before he realizes, no, he really isn't opposed. They repeat the ritual, and Geno pours  _ another  _ before setting the bottle down.

 

Sid's glad vodka doesn't really kick in for twenty minutes because it's obvious Geno's started far more than twenty minutes ago but he's still lucid enough to ask, “What happened?”

 

Geno laughs. Nothing about it invites Sid to join in. “Try talk. Think work.” He shrugs. “She decide no. Leave.”

 

Sid sits on the couch, hoping Geno'll follow suit, grateful when he does because Sid isn't a fan of having conversations while craning his neck upward toward the person. “Today?”

 

Geno's resting his head on the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His lips are red, probably from residual saliva as he'd licked the alcohol off his lips. “Yes. Morning.”

 

Sid's quiet. He doesn't know the situation, he doesn't necessarily  _ hate  _ Oksana, but still: “That was shitty.”

 

Geno shrugs. “I'm more shitty.”

 

Sid feels personally offended at the suggestion. “You're not  _ shitty  _ — ”

 

“Am. Was. To her.” He takes in a shaky breath, lets it out just as shakily. “She deserve better. More.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Geno's silent, slouching, staring at his hands. “Someone who here.”

 

Sid clenches his jaw. “It isn't as if she didn't fucking know — ”

 

“Sid,” Geno cuts in quietly, before Sid can really get started.

 

Sid bites the inside of his cheek, holding his words in. “I'm sorry,” he says, instead of  _ Oksana's a fucking idiot  _ or  _ She doesn't know what she's missing  _ or  _ You deserve everything _ .

 

_ You don't know her side of the story, _ he reminds himself, but staring at Geno's profile — jaw tight, eyes wide and blinking, throat bobbing — makes it hard to care.

 

“She right, you know? Is worse part,” Geno says after a bit, as if the words are dragged, jagged, through his throat, shredding his vocal cords. “I promise, will be here more. Promise, try see her side. Promise, pay more attention. Promise, be better.” The line of his mouth makes it obvious what he thinks about his promises. “Lie.”

 

Sid wants to say Geno couldn't  _ be  _ better, but that's a lie. Geno isn't perfect, no matter what his more romantic, idealistic thoughts lead him to believe. So he stays silent instead, waiting for Geno to get out what he needs to.

 

“Not surprise. She tell me, is — ” He pauses, looking over to Sid briefly as he asks, “What is word? 'Do this, or leave?'”

 

“Ultimatum.”

 

Geno nods, back to staring up. “Give ultimatum. My fault — not take that seriously? Think: No, she not mean, she love, is…” He pauses, swallowing. “Is not  _ real  _ ultimate.”

 

Sid's about to correct him but he catches himself. Now  _ really  _ isn't the time.

 

Geno laughs, the sound just as bad as before. “Wrong. Very wrong.”

 

He's quiet enough for long Sid feels compelled to say  _ something _ , anything. “I'm… really sorry, Geno. You both deserve better.” He isn't feeling charitable toward Oksana, but he can't ignore how kind she'd been anytime they'd met — always making sure to include him.

 

“Yeah. I sorry, too.”

 

Sid sighs, joining Geno in tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling. They're both quiet for a bit, and then Sid straightens. “We need more vodka.”

 

Geno nods. “Yes.” He straightens, too, reaching for the bottle.

 

***

 

After God knows how many drinks, the world spins around him, just a little. Geno's probably a lot worse off.

 

“Is just…” Geno slurs, waving the hand with an empty shot glass in it around. “Am hard to love, you know?”

 

Sid isn't thinking as he laughs, says, “No, you're really not.”

 

Geno scoffs. “Am.”

 

Sid shakes his head, tilting it so his cheek rests against the couch, eyes resting on Geno's face. “You're really…  _ really  _ fucking not.”

 

Geno turns so  _ his  _ cheek is resting against the couch,  _ his  _ eyes resting on Sid's face. “How you know?” he challenges.

 

“Trust me,” Sid says drily. His gaze travels down, down the long line of Geno's neck, his shoulder, his arm, his hand, and then he shuts his eyes. He isn't expecting Geno to hear him when he says, “My life would be a lot fucking easier.”

 

“…What you mean?”

 

Sid freezes, eyes flying open. “Nothing.”

 

Geno leans over, close enough his breath is warm on Sid's cheek. “Sid,” he says, quiet, pleading. “What you mean?”

 

“I.” Sid's breathing quickly, almost panting. He meets Geno's eye, and there's no way he can hide what he's feeling. His pulse thunders under his skin. “I mean I love you,” he chokes out, and he wants to look away but forces himself not to, to watch as the words slowly register, the way Geno's eyes widen, the way his throat bobs, the way he slowly shakes his head.

 

He doesn't know why he says it. He doesn't have an excuse. He doesn't have a reason, except that he hears Flower’s voice saying  _ you have nothing to lose _ , except maybe that he's  _ tired _ . Of keeping it inside, of allowing it to balloon into this cloud that follows him everywhere. The secret he's kept for a decade, growing heavier and heavier with each year until it anchored him down, made it impossible to move forward.

 

Besides, isn't the first step admitting you have a problem?

 

Geno stops breathing. The words hang like a noose around Sid's neck, tethered to Geno, and as he leans away slowly, staring, the noose tightens until Sid can't breathe.

 

“Don’t...” he says, voice hoarse. He shakes his head again. “Don’t understand. You can’t. No.” 

 

Sid’s imagined Geno rejecting him again and again and again — he knows it isn’t possible, he  _ knows _ it isn’t going to end well; why the fuck had he said it — but  _ You can’t  _ isn’t a response he’s expecting. “What do you mean, I can’t?” he asks, when what he  _ should _ be doing is taking it back, maybe playing it off as a joke. 

 

_ Ha ha you thought I meant it? Nah, buddy, just messing with you.  _

 

“Can’t love,” he says, and then he gestures between the two of them. “Not soulmate. Can’t love.” 

 

“Yeah, well, I’ll just tell my brain that and sort it all out, eh?” Sid says, moving to the other side of the couch. What the fuck does Geno  _ mean _ , can’t love — that isn’t how it fucking works. “Just forget it. Forget I said anything.” 

 

“Forget?” Geno’s eyebrows are at the top of his forehead and he huffs out a little laugh. “Can’t  _ forget _ , Sid, you say — “ He cuts himself off, swallowing. “Love.” 

 

The way he trips over the word, disbelieving, almost as if it’s taboo, is what really makes Sid realize what’s happening — what he’s done. He’s fucked it up with Geno, he’s lost one of his best friends, and for what? Nothing. There was never even a chance, so he'd risked it all for nothing.

 

God, he feels sick. He stands. He needs air. He needs to leave. As steadily as he can, he says, “I need to go.” 

 

Geno stands, too, staring at him. “Go? Can’t just  _ go _ , Sid, need — talk, explain — “ 

 

“There’s nothing to fucking talk about,” Sid spits out, breathing heavily. “This was a mistake. Obviously. You’ve said what you’ve wanted to say — “ 

 

“Say  _ what _ , I say nothing — “ 

 

“You’ve said  _ enough _ , I’m leaving, I don’t need a play-by-play of what went wrong — “ 

 

“Need  _ explain _ , Sid, what you mean — “ 

 

“What I  _ mean _ ? I mean I — “ He can’t say it again, see the shock and dismissal and denial  _ again _ . “It’s fucking obvious, what I mean, it isn’t complicated.” 

 

“Not complicate?” Geno nods, jaw clenched. “Not complicate, okay. Just change — everything in life, but not complicate.” He steps closer. “Of course complicate, Sid! Maybe you — not know, mean something else, because not have soulmate and — “ 

 

“What?” he says, interrupting Geno, and he has to take a moment to absorb what Geno’s saying because it's so stupid. “I mean what I fucking said, just because I don’t have a fucking _soulmate_ — “ God, he hates that word “ — doesn’t mean I can’t feel _love_ , I can’t — “ The lump in his throat gets too big, cuts him off. “I can’t fucking believe you.” And it’s enough, he’s had enough, he needs to leave. He should have never come. He should have never said it. He _should_ have never fallen in love. 

 

Geno reaches out, grabs his elbow when he turns to leave. “Not mean — “ 

 

Sid snatches his arm away, glaring as he says, “ _ Don’t _ touch me. I’m leaving. Have fun in Russia.” 

 

“Just gonna go?” Geno says, spreading his arms wide. "Can’t just say love, change —  _ everything  _ and leave, Sid, fuck! You not soulmate, can’t love you, you can’t love me, not work. Can’t — " He breaks off into Russian, voice getting progressively louder, and Sid turns around before he’s finished with his tirade, shoving his hands in his pocket and gripping his keys until the teeth dig into his palm.  

 

“Fine, leave!” 

 

Sid raises his hand, like he would when thanking someone while he’s driving, and says without turning around, “Didn’t need your permission, but thanks.” 

 

His breathing is still uneven, too close to a sob for Sid to be comfortable with, so he shuts Geno's door behind him and leans against it, taking a moment to shut his eyes and do some breathing exercises, gain at least a semblance of control.

 

He opens his eyes and swallows, eying his car, wondering if he's had too much to drive safely. Probably. He says  _ fuck it _ and decides to walk, because it's late and his place isn't that far away, anyway. He'll pick up his car later. After Geno leaves.

 

He walks, and he refuses to think, refuses to feel. He gets home. Brushes his teeth. Changes his clothes. Climbs into bed. He stares up at the ceiling, silence settling around him, suffocating.

 

He still doesn't feel. He still doesn't think.

 

Doesn't feel. Doesn't think.

 

Don't feel. Don't think.

 

***

 

He wakes up the next day with a pounding headache, cursing himself for drinking too much before remembering  _ why  _ he drank too much, then cursing himself more.

 

He'd fucking confessed. Like an idiot. Just gone and put his feelings out into the wild. Is it a surprise that it had felt like open season, Geno shooting them down one by one.

 

It isn't. Not even a little. And, really,  _ that's  _ what makes it worse.

 

He should have known. He  _ had  _ known. He'd just ignored it, and he doesn't even know why.

 

He'd blame alcohol — again; maybe he needs to stop drinking — but he doesn't think that's going to rewind time and stop himself from confessing.

 

_ Like an idiot _ , he reminds himself, because the one thing he's learned about a lesson is that it needs to be consistently beat into him until it's muscle memory.

 

He just needs to keep replaying this — and, frankly,  _ all  _ the small rejections he's faced — again and again and again until he doesn't even have to think about it, until  _ not  _ doing shit like this  _ is  _ muscle memory.

 

He gets up. His head's pounding —  _ good _ , a part of him thinks,  _ you fucking deserve it  _ — but he forces himself to stand, brushing his teeth and popping a couple ibuprofen before heading to his fridge.

 

He's thankful it isn't sunny today. It means there isn't as much brightness filtering in from the windows; it's less of a headache.

 

As he prepares his breakfast — eggs, toast, and coffee; nothing special — he thinks about his phone, which is sitting upstairs, turned off.

 

He'd forced himself to turn it off when he'd consistently started checking it, hoping for a text from Geno, some sort of — of affirmation, a declaration of  _ I love you, too _ .

 

All he'd gotten, of course, was blue light, anxiety, and disappointment.

 

_ Good metaphor for life _ , he thinks as he pokes at his eggs in the pan, because what is life but staring at screens, getting anxious about the possibilities and then disappointed at the lack of outcomes, again and again and again?

 

Sidney Crosby, hockey player  _ and _ philosopher.

 

It's a maudlin thought — enough so, he considers legitimately calling Flower. Flower would probably be the most understanding without the immediate need to either a) fix the problem (Duper) or b) coercing by whatever means Sid and/or Geno into confronting it until it was all okay (Tanger).

 

He doesn't. Yet. Because he's still too asleep to put up a proper defense. Maybe later, though.

 

He's about to put some coffee into the filter, but when he opens the cabinet to pull it out, he finds boxes of tea — Geno's tea. Because no one else  _ really  _ drinks tea, and Sid always got a couple boxes to make it seem less like he was exclusively picking it up for Geno.

 

He's pretty sure Geno knew, though.

 

He stares at it long enough he's embarrassed, and then he's hit with the urge to fucking trash it so he jerks forward, grabs the boxes, shoves them into his garbage can, shoving it down a couple times until the boxes are crumpled. He straightens and then takes a moment to grip the edge of the counter and collect himself. When the urge to punch something leaches out of him, he shuts his eyes for a bit. Then he straightens, swallowing, and takes the trash out, putting in a new liner.

 

He eats, works out, packs up — he doesn't think he's processed it yet, really, because he still doesn't feel anything except a residual disappointment. Like, _ Aw, fuck, buddy; sucks it didn't work out _ , not,  _ Oh, you got all your deepest fears and insecurities confirmed? How does that make you feel,  _ and he suspects the latter is more appropriate for this situation.

 

Whatever. He's going to be on the lake, and he won't have to see Geno for months. The fact that he doesn't have social media is  _ more  _ of a blessing, because he can't even stalk Geno's social accounts forlornly while pretending it's because he just  _ happens  _ to be on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or whatever the fuck people use these days.

 

He'll have to see Geno again in a few months, but he's convinced he's going to be over him by that time. He'll make it happen.

 

He's about to think,  _ Fuck Geno _ , but it just feels so  _ wrong _ he can't. The fact he can't pisses him off, and then the fact that he's letting  _ Geno  _ affect him pisses him off further, so he spends a good five minutes sorting through all that.

 

His flight leaves tonight. He'd asked Flower to drop him off — Duper can barely go anywhere without one of his kids asking to come along, and Sid loves them, he really does, but maybe not right after the playoffs, when he's angry and bitter and surly; Tanger has a baby, and he'd feel too guilty taking time away from that, considering how little time Tanger gets to spend with Cath and Alex, anyway — but he considers calling and canceling, calling a cab instead.

 

It might be safer. He honestly isn't sure he'd be able to keep himself from getting embarrassingly emotional if Flower asked him what's wrong, and Sid avoids getting embarrassingly emotional as much he can.

 

It feels like the day drags on, but he blinks and it's the evening, half an hour before Flower's supposed to arrive.

 

He goes through and does a last inspection, making sure he has everything he needs, everything's packed, he's ready to go.

 

Flower texts  _ I'm here _ and Sid leaves, locking the door behind him, taking a moment to take a deep breath and let it out, loosen his shoulders.

 

He's leaving. He doesn't need to think about it.

 

“Hey,” he says after putting his luggage in the trunk, sliding into the passenger seat.

 

“Hey,” Flower says. “Ready to go? Have everything?”

 

Sid nods. “Yeah.”

 

“Alright, then,” Flower says, switching gears. “To the airport we go.”

 

“How's Vero? Estelle?”

 

Flower's grin is blinding. “Oh, good, good.” He laughs to himself. “Actually, yesterday…”

 

He starts in on a story, something funny Estelle did — Sid isn't really listening, though he tries to force himself to. He keeps zoning out, making sure to sprinkle in  _ No way _ s and  _ Uh huh _ s to indicate he's listening.

 

When Flower's done, silence settles over them.

 

“So,” Flower says after a bit. “What happened?”

 

“Nothing,” Sid replies without hesitation. He looks at Flower after a bit, who's raised his eyebrows but hasn't bothered saying anything, turning away from the road.

 

“If you're sure,” he says when Sid stays silent, nothing in his voice accusatory or pointed — just reassuring.

 

Sid swallows. Stares at the dashboard, hands balled into fists on his thighs. “I told Geno I loved him.” He's proud of how steady, detached it comes out.

 

He whips his head to Sid. “Holy shit,  _ what _ ?”

 

“Eyes on the road.” When Flower complies, he continues, “Yeah. You, uh. You can probably guess what happened, though.”

 

Flower's quiet. “I'm sorry, Sid.”

 

“Yeah, well.” He huffs out a laugh. “At least I get to say I told you so, eh?”

 

Flower's face is pinched, his knuckles white where he's gripping the steering wheel. “Was kinda hoping  _ I'd  _ get to say I told you so.”

 

“Weren't we all,” Sid intones, staring out the window. It still isn't dark out. He hates summer.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Neither of them says anything for the rest of the ride until Flower pulls up into the airport. They both get out. Sid gets his bags, and Flower pulls him in for a tight hug. Sid tries to pull away after a couple seconds, but Flower tightens his arms around him, says, “I'm so sorry, Sid. You deserve better.”

 

Of course  _ this  _ is what's going to get him emotional. “Thanks,” he says hoarsely. This time, when he pulls away, Flower lets him go.

 

“Take some time to relax. Enjoy,” Flower says.

 

“You, too,” Sid says, because the media had put Flower on  _ blast _ , as they always fucking did. “Seriously. Stop reading the shit they're spewing.”

 

Flower shrugs, laughing, but it's stilted. “Nah, man, I don't do that.”

 

“I swear, Flower. Don't make me call Vero.”

 

Flower raises both hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, no need to threaten me.” His smile's smaller, but a little more genuine.

 

“Alright,” Sid says, nodding. “See you.”

 

Flower nods back, getting into his car, and Sid turns away.

 

***

 

Sid's sitting reclined in a sun chair, eyes shut behind his sunglasses, swim shorts on. The sun beats down on him, evaporating the water that's stuck to his skin from the earlier swim. No one wants his attention, his advice, his presence — it's quiet; peaceful.

 

A shadow overtakes his face, water dripping onto his shoulder. He opens his eyes to find Taylor beaming down at him, and she grins wider when she realizes she's got Sid's attention, shaking her hair so more water flies over him.

 

He splutters. “ _ Taylor _ . I was just getting dry!”

 

Taylor laughs, leaning away. “Sucks to be you.”

 

He takes off his sunglasses so he can properly glare at her. “ _ Thanks _ .”

 

Shrugging, she reaches behind her and drags a chair from the outdoor table, swinging it around so she can straddle it and rest her forearms on the back, her chin on her forearms. “So.”

 

Sid waits. “So,” he repeats, eyebrows raised, when Taylor doesn't say anything.

 

Tilting her head to the side, she asks, “What happened?”

 

Sid blinks at her before putting the sunglasses back on, settling in the chair. “We lost. Weren't you paying attention?”

 

“Bold of you to assume I pay attention to you,” she says.

 

Sid lets out a sarcastic laugh. It’s been good, being away. With his family. He hasn’t really kept in a lot of contact with anyone, nothing more than a couple phone calls, which probably isn’t that great, but he just needs some time to himself. He can’t have that time if he’s too busy reassuring everyone he’s okay.

 

“But seriously. Like. What happened? And don't try to deny it, I  _ know  _ something did.”

 

“Oh?” Sid turns to her, sliding the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so he can be properly condescending. “Female intuition?”

 

“Female intuition backed by scientific  _ fact _ , thanks.” She's trying to stare him down. “Seriously, man. Tell me what happened?”

 

“Nothing!”

 

“Sid. What happened? With…” She concludes quietly with, “With Geno.”

 

Sid stiffens. “Dunno what you mean.”

 

She groans. “Oh my god, will you stop  _ lying _ ?” She pauses and then says, the words bursting out of her, as if begging to be let out, “I texted them, okay, because you seemed weird and, like, I can  _ tell  _ when something's off and I knew you wouldn't tell me — ”

 

“Wait.” Sid sits up, twisting so his feet hit the deck. “You texted  _ who _ .”

 

Taylor bites her lip. “…People.”

 

“ _ People _ .” Sid nods, huffing out a laugh. “Yeah, these people happen to maybe hail from the great province of Québec? All have an  _ annoying  _ fucking need to involve themselves in my life?” Sid is going to have  _ words _ .

 

Taylor frowns at him. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” Before Sid can respond — it's okay,  _ he's  _ confirming — she says, “Look, I'm not around, so I have to have someone who keeps tabs, okay? And when you're with me, I return the favor.”

 

Sid stares at her, mouth parting. “Hang on, are you telling me — ” He leans forward, pointing at her with his index finger. “Are you telling me you're  _ spying  _ on me for them? And they  _ spy  _ on me for you?”

 

“It isn't spying, Jesus,” she says, scowling. “Stop being dramatic. We just…” She shrugs, looking away. She traces nonsensical patterns on her forearm as she says, “We worry. And we know you're the kinda guy who's gonna pretend everything's a-okay if anyone asks, so we make do.”

 

It seems the French-Canadian phone tree has expanded to include a plain-Canadian. “That's a serious violation of privacy.”

 

“Yeah, well,  _ family's  _ a serious violation of privacy. Fucking deal.”

 

Sid slips on his sunglasses again and gets comfortable in his chair. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

 

“Cool. Now that you're done being dramatic — ”

 

“Being pissed at the fact that you have  _ keepers  _ isn't dramatic.”

 

“ — let's get back to the topic: What happened with Geno.”

 

“Well, since you know so much about my life, why don't  _ you _ tell  _ me _ ?”

 

“Squid.” It's soft, worried, about as non-confrontational as they get. “Just… please let me be a part of your life.”

 

Sid swallows. She knows exactly what to fucking say. He pinches the bridge of his nose, the glasses pushed atop his fingers. “Just. Shit happened. It wasn't great.”

 

“I don't… I know you're probably not gonna wanna tell me what actually happened, but. Just.” She pauses. “Can you please tell me how you're feeling? Right now? About it?”

 

“Fine.” The response is automatic. When the silence stretches on, he feels the need to say, “I'm… coping.”

 

“Do you hate him?”

 

“ _ Jesus _ , if only,” Sid mutters. To Taylor, he says, “No. But I'm getting over it. Him.”

 

He  _ is _ . He's fucking sure of it. He hasn't thought about him in an entire  _ week _ , not until Taylor brought him up.

 

“Okay.” She doesn't say  _ You should've told me  _ or  _ I didn't even know you loved him  _ or  _ Why have you been hiding it?  _ but he hears it.

 

Maybe he's just guilty.

 

“Do you think… maybe…” Sid isn't looking at her, still hellbent on pretending he's out here, just enjoying a nice afternoon lazing in the sun, but he's pretty sure she's making her  _ I know this isn't going to be received well, but I'm gonna say it anyway  _ face. “He, like. Just. Needed some time to absorb what you'd said? And he feels the same?”

 

Geno hasn't contacted him. No emails, texts, calls — nothing. Sid knows what that means. He's returned the favor, of course — he hasn't talked to or about Geno after that day.

 

People have  _ tried _ , of course. Flower, Duper, and Tanger once they found out — courtesy of Flower, because Sid didn't want to be the one fielding questions about it — have asked about it again and again and again, but the great thing about phone conversations is that the threat to hang up really works, especially when you show you mean business.

 

Taylor's the furthest anyone's gotten, and it's only because Sid can't hang up on a face-to-face conversation.

 

He clenches his jaw. “Taylor,” he starts, trying not to be terse but he doesn't think he's very successful, “I'd appreciate it if you never said something like that again.”

 

“Sorry,” she says quickly, “sorry, yeah, just. He always seemed so…” She pauses. “Nothing, just — I'm sorry he turned out to be an asshole.”

 

“He's…” Sid hates that he's saying it, but: “He's not an asshole. Just. He doesn't feel the same way. That isn't being an asshole.”

 

He hates saying it because it would be so much easier if Geno  _ were  _ an asshole. 

 

“He hurt you. Ergo, he's an asshole.”

 

He smiles a little, the sun warm on his face. “Yeah, don't think that's how it works.”

 

“Pretty sure that's  _ exactly  _ how it works.” Silence, as Sid doesn't offer a reply. “Do you… do you think you two're gonna be fine once you get back?”

 

“Pretty sure he'll be fine.” It shouldn't be hard for Geno. Worst thing for him will probably be knowing he rejected Sid, and Sid's going to show him that's no problem at all. “I'm.” He sighs. “I'll be fine, too.” He pauses. “It's just — I love — loved him, y'know? 'S different. Takes more time.”

 

“Yeah?” she asks softly.

 

“Just need more time, 's all.” He isn't going to let Geno affect him this way. He isn't going to let Geno wreak havoc on his life anymore.

 

He's accomplished more impossible things.

 

“Okay.” She nods. “Yeah, whatever, fuck him.”

 

“I'd drink to that.”

 

“Lucky for  _ you _ ,” Taylor says, imbuing an ungodly amount of cheer into her words, “I actually  _ am  _ the best.” He hears the  _ clink  _ of glasses and turns toward her, raising his eyebrows.

 

She's grinning, tilting the bottle in her hand side-to-side. “Piña Coladas.”

 

Sid grins back. “Nice.”

 

She pours it into both glasses, passes him one, and he takes it as he relaxes back.

 

“To getting over guys whose name's start with 'G,'” she says seriously, and they clink their glasses together.

 

Sid takes a sip and nods in approval. He waits until Taylor maneuvers herself so she's sitting in a deck chair too, the picture of relaxation as she sips her drink, before he says, “So who's the guy?”

 

She chokes on the drink, coughing loudly and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “ _ What _ .”

 

“Guys whose name begins with 'G',” he repeats, studying her as she grows redder, his grin wider. “Who's the guy? Gary? Gerard?” Horrible names, but he isn't going to say anything. “George?”

 

She's frowning into the glass and mumbles into the rim, petulant, “Gabriel.” Her cheek rests on the seat's headrest as she looks at him, begging for sympathy. “Also foreign. From  _ Argentina _ .”

 

He's grave as he says, “I'm sorry. It's my fault. I should've warned you to stay away from foreign guys whose names begin with 'G' long ago.”

 

“Yeah, you fucking should have. Thanks.”

 

He's even  _ more  _ serious as he says, “So what'd he do? Do I need to kick his ass?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, I don’t need you to kick anyone’s ass, ever. Worst comes to worst,  _ I’ll  _ kick their ass.”

 

“You didn’t answer the question.”

 

She huffs. “Nothing. He’s just — ” She gesticulates wildly, a bit of liquid spilling from her glass. She pays it no mind. “Perfect and. Y'know.” She pouts. “Perfect. Perfectly doesn't know I exist.”

 

“Wait,” Sid says, eyebrows shooting up. “You haven't even _talked_ to this guy?” This — older brother who cajoles her into doing the shit she isn't confident enough to do — is a role he is familiar with, one he welcomes.

 

“I  _ have _ ,” she says, indignant. “…In, like, daydreams. During class.”

 

“ _ Taylor _ .” He sits up. “Listen. You like this guy?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

“But you haven't even talked to him? What if he's your, I don't know, soulmate?”

 

“Soulmates are stupid,” she says, glaring at him. “They're dumb. Who cares?”

 

Sid suppresses his smile at her display of solidarity. It’s sweet, but Sid knows about her stash of dramatic romances, all centered around star-crossed soulmates. “ _ I  _ care. Why haven't you said anything?”

 

_ He  _ doesn't have a soulmate; doesn't mean no one else can.

 

“Because he's just…”

 

“Perfect,” they both say at the same time, and Sid continues, “What does that even mean?”

 

“He's way out of my league, okay?” she whines. “I should just, like. Stick to hockey or something. Things that make sense.” She sighs dramatically. “He's an  _ artist _ . He writes  _ poetry _ . He's  _ sensitive _ .”

 

_ He  _ sounds _ like a pretentious asshole _ . “Taylor…” And this,  _ this _ — advice-giver, not advice-taker — is something he's  _ good _ at. “You shouldn't…”

 

***

 

He isn't in Pittsburgh for more than a day before someone's ringing his doorbell.

 

He frowns, checking the time. It's almost ten. He considers not answering, but it rings again so he sighs and thumps down the stairs, heading to the door.

 

When he opens it, he has to stop himself from slamming it shut.

 

It's Geno.

 

And, as it turns out, Sid really fucking  _ isn't  _ over him.

 

He'd always imagined their reunion to be one where Sid would come out on top, suave and cold and detached — coming off as if Sid doesn’t care, not one fucking bit.

 

Reality strikes him still, dumb, and unable to look away.

 

“Sid,” Geno says, and it shouldn't — the way he says his  _ name _ , it shouldn't fucking  _ mean  _ anything to Sid, he shouldn't  _ feel  _ anything, but he does. “Can talk?”

 

The door handle is digging into Sid's palm, so he lets it go, lets out a shuddery breath. “How did you know I was back?”

 

Geno shoves his hands into his pockets, doing a half-shrug. “Just know.”

 

“You're going to start off by lying to me? That's how you're gonna try and convince me to talk?” Sid's surprised by the hostility in his own tone, but what the fuck does Geno think is going to happen? He's gonna show up, look sad, be glib, give a half-assed explanation or something and Sid's just supposed to — forget?

 

Geno's eyes widen. “Not mean like that! Tanger tell me.”

 

“ _ Tanger _ .” Fucking Tanger.

 

“And Duper. Is — ” He licks his lips, looking away. “I call, they say want talk to me first.”

 

Sid's lips press together, eyebrows rising. “Oh, did they? Flower wasn't invited to the party?”

 

“I, uh.” He scratches his nose. “Talk to him already. Before.”

 

Sid needs to get new friends. “Well, since you've talked to basically everyone except me — ” He steps aside, gesturing inside. Geno follows him gingerly as Sid leads them to the living room.

 

When Geno sits, Sid asks: “Coffee, tea?”

 

Geno shakes his head. “No, don't — ”

 

“I'll make tea.” Sid impatiently waits for Geno's nod before going to the kitchen, taking a moment to rest his elbows on the counter, bury his face in his hands, letting out a loud, slow exhale. He swallows and drags his hands down, staring at nothing for a moment before straightening.

 

He goes to the cabinet to pull out some tea but can't find any. Only then does he remember how he'd thrown it all out. He curses under his breath and walks back to the living room, where Geno's sitting exactly like he'd left him — legs spread, hands clasped between his knees, slouched against the back; staring intently at nothing — and says, “Sorry, I'm apparently out of tea.”

 

“No problem.” Geno tilts his head. “Gonna sit?”

 

Sid crosses his arms. “No.”

 

“Oh.” Geno looks away.

 

Neither of them say anything.

 

Sid forces his jaw to relax. “So?” He hurls the word at Geno.

 

Geno jerks his head toward him. He looks — looks a lot like he's back in 2006, unable to speak English, terrified of this new place, trying to minimize his presence by hunching in on himself but failing because Geno is nothing if not noticeable.

 

He can't help the way he softens, says, “You wanted to talk?”

 

Geno nods. “I — yes.” He runs his hands up and down the tops of his thighs. “Want to — yes, talk.” He pauses his hands before resuming. He isn't looking at Sid. “About. What happen, before.”

 

Sid shifts where he's standing. “We don't need to. Nothing happened. It's good. It's fine.”

 

Geno shakes his head. “Maybe not for you, but for me, is… was big thing.”

 

“Listen, I don't wanna talk about this, okay?” Sid says.

 

“No, what I'm say — ”

 

“I fucked up, it's fine, whatever.”

 

“Didn't — ”

 

“Can we fucking drop — ”

 

“Can you fucking  _ listen _ ?” Geno isn't yelling, but it's close.

 

Sid snaps his mouth shut. “Fine.” His chest moves up and down rapidly. He doesn't want to talk about this, he doesn't want to relive it again — he'd been planning on going his entire life without ever acknowledging it had happened. “It's not gonna lead anywhere, but if you wanna waste your time, go for it.”

 

Geno's probably going to try and "fix" things, try to figure out how they were going to be "okay," and he'd mean well — he always does — but all it would do is reopen those wounds, make it harder to patch them up. 

 

“In off-season, I… think. Lots. About — about you.” He clears his throat. “About what you say. When you say love — ” He stumbles over the word and Sid flinches; barely, but he flinches “ — me, I'm confuse. Very confuse. Because…you not soulmate, you know?”

 

_ Yeah, I'm well aware, thanks _ , Sid thinks, and then decides he can say it aloud: “Yeah, I'm well aware, thanks.”

 

Geno nods, which Sid hadn't expected. “Exactly. You not grow up think 'Oh, find soulmate, find soulmate, only way have family.' You think, 'Soulmate? No.'” He spreads his arms wide. “Easy. Simple. For me? Worry, confuse, not know — how love Sid  _ and  _ have family? Ksusha only — ”

 

“Wait.” Sid's arm drop to his sides. He feels his pulse, hears it, like shitty background music he can't tune out. “You…wait.” Swallows. “Did you just say you love me?”

 

Geno ducks his head. “Yes,” he mumbles to his knee.

 

Sid sits down. He doesn't know what to say. Stares.

 

Geno clears his throat. “Like I say, Ksusha — ”

 

“Do you mean it?”

 

He looks up and there's no way Sid can doubt the veracity of his sentiment, not with the intensity and sincerity of his expression. “Yes.”

 

It's always easy to tell when Geno's lying.

 

Sid's mouth is dry, so dry. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, nodding. Fuck. Fuck, he needs a moment. “Continue.”

 

“Always mean. Is why me and Ksusha… think she know? I'm love her, but love you, too.” He jerks his shoulders up. It's supposed to be a shrug, probably, but it's too stilted for that. “Make worse, because can't love two people. But I say myself — stop think. Sid have own soulmate, not feel that way, y'know? Then I find out — no soulmate, and I'm scare, but then think, no problem, Sid still not love, everything okay. ” He pauses and says, so quiet Sid isn't sure if he heard right, “But then see you do.” He takes a deep breath. “Still?”

 

“Yeah,” Sid says, nodding, and it still — he's having trouble reconciling this with reality.

 

This isn't something he's supposed to have.

 

_ Maybe he's just here to tell you all this shit and then go back to Oksana,  _ a part of him thinks, but he shuts that down fast because it's stupid, it's a stupid thought.

 

Geno isn't like that. He never intentionally hurts someone, not like this.

 

Geno's laugh is soft, self-deprecating as he ducks his head. “Not blame if don't.”

 

Sid shakes his head. “I do. Believe me, I tried not to, but.” The cool leather of the sofa digs into his fingertips as he grips the sides of, uncomfortable, but he can’t get himself to stop. “I do.”

 

Geno’s smile peeks out from behind a cloud of wariness. “Really?”

 

Sid smiles back, a Pavlovian response. It's one that's welcome. “ _ Really _ really.”

 

Geno's laugh is far, far less self-deprecating this time. “Good.” He rubs the back of his head. “Happy.”

 

And Sid — well, he's feeling too much. He doesn't know if he's happy or relieved or confused or shocked and probably he's all of the above, so he says, “You were saying — Oksana.”

 

Geno becomes serious again. “Yes. Think, only have family with her because soulmate, y'know? I'm know she think same, with me — know both love others, too. But lie, say, 'No. I try again, with you.' Again and again. Bad choice. Think, maybe learn not work.” He shakes his head. “Both too stubborn. But both not want relationship, not try, just — expect. Soulmates, yes, so work without try, y'know?” His dry expression is so out of place with the atmosphere, it startles a laugh out of Sid as he says, “Dumb.”

 

“When you say love me,” Geno continues, “I'm — freak out. Because now  _ have  _ to think, not ignore how I feel. So, act — bad.”

 

“I sprang it on you,” Sid says. “I get why it was a shock. You didn't act  _ bad _ .”

 

Geno shakes his head. “Know I love, too, but pretend not. Lie, to me, to you. Bad. Then, not talk whole off-season because keep think, think, think. Call Flower.”

 

“Why'd you call Flower?” Sid asks.

 

“Think he last person you see, before leave. Drive you, yes?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” He furrows his brow. “How'd you know?”

 

“Tanger have Alex, new baby. Duper have kid, know you not like talk to them because angry after playoff knockout.” He shrugs. “Flower left.”

 

Sid blinks at him. If he weren’t already overwhelmed, this would probably tip him over the top. “Yeah.”

 

“So call Flower. He… angry, a little. But…” He trails off, asking, “What is word? Understanding, nice?”

 

“Sympathetic.”

 

“Yes, sympathetic. Tell him what I'm think, he say: 'Not tell what to do, but do what feel right.' Which…” Geno raises his eyebrow. “Very Flower.”

 

Sid laughs. “Yeah, it is.”

 

“Talk some more, and… help. Very easy to talk, not challenge, just ask  _ why you think that _ , make me think, y'know?”

 

Geno's looking at him as if expecting agreement, so Sid nods.

 

“Think, think, think — okay, go back to Pittsburgh, Sid here early. I come, ring doorbell — no one here. So I'm call Duper, because know he here, 'When Sid get here?' Duper say, 'Talk me and Tanger first.' I do. Then tell — Sid come back in two week.” He's looking at Sid softly. “Then come here, try tell, ask, hope — still want be with me?”

 

Sid nods vehemently. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “God, yes.” He's about to get up but Geno does first, taking a stride so he's standing in front of Sid, sinking down to his knees.

 

He leans forward, placing a hand on Sid's cheek, and Sid places both of his on his shoulders. “Gonna kiss. Okay?” he asks, moving forward until he's only millimeters away.

 

“Yeah,” Sid breathes, and he doesn't even have time to finish the word until Geno's leaning forward, fitting his mouth over Sid's, and Sid closes his eyes, allows himself to sink into it, sliding his hands up so one holds the back of Geno's neck, the other buried in his hair.

 

He's still out of breath when they break, and he leans back as little as possible — just enough to properly look Geno in the eyes — and places his fingertips on Geno's cheek, almost afraid that if he's too forceful, touches too much, all of this will break and he'll be back where he'd started. “I…” He seeks him out again, fitting their mouths together for a chaste kiss. “Are you sure? About this?”

 

“Yes,” Geno answers quickly. When he nods, Sid feels the tug in the fingers still latched into Geno's hair. “Fuck.  _ Yes _ .”

 

He pushes at Geno's shoulders, tugs up. When they're both standing, he says, "Upstairs?"

 

Geno leans down, nosing against Sid's neck. “Yes. Please.”

 

“Okay.” Sid tilts his head to the side, shutting his eyes. “Okay.”

 

Sid leads them to his room, Geno crowding close behind, his hands always touching some part of Sid — his back, hip, shoulder, arm — but never distracting.

 

He pauses at the doorway but Geno walks in, stripping his shirt and throwing it to the side. He looks back at Sid, raising his eyebrow when he sees Sid shut the door.

 

“What?” Sid says, frowning a little. He doesn't stumble as Geno pulls him in close.

 

“Nothing.” Geno kisses him, slow, soft. “Worry someone see?”

 

“It's called comfort,” Sid says, pushing Geno gently.

 

Geno goes easy, grinning as he bounces on the bed, hands resting on Sid's hips as Sid gets closer. “Oh? Maybe lock front door, too.”

 

Sid stops running his hand through Geno's hair. “Wait, it isn't locked?” He takes a step back as he says, “I'm gonna go check.”

 

“No,  _ Sid _ ,” Geno whines, one hand still on Sid's hip even as he turns.

 

“I'll just be a second.” Fucking sue him; he's a little paranoid. He ignores Geno's dramatic groan and goes to the door. It  _ is  _ unlocked, so he quickly locks it before heading back to Geno.

 

When he gets back, Geno's got his feet on the floor, head resting on the middle of the bed, arms spread across its length. He lifts his neck. “ _ Finally _ .”

 

“Shouldn't have brought it up,” Sid says, eyebrows raised, and he walks forward, stripping his shirt and following Geno's actions in throwing it somewhere to the side.

 

Geno peels his back off the mattress, hands reaching out, and as soon as Sid's near enough, he reels him in, pulling on the back of his neck so Sid leans down far enough to kiss him. One of his hands plays with Sid's necklace, the other going to the small of his back, pressing him closer.

 

“Go, top of the bed,” Sid says, breathless, shoving at him. Geno scrambles to comply, saying, “ _ Fast _ ,” when he thinks Sid's taking too long to follow.

 

“Anyone tell you you're impatient?” he asks as he climbs over Geno, settling down on top of him, nose-to-nose.

 

“No. Always say very surprise at patience.” He wastes no time in running his hands over Sid's body, swiping up his back, gripping his neck, the back of his head. Sid doesn't even have to wait for the impatient tug before he's leaning down, pressing Geno into the mattress.

 

They kiss hesitantly at first — both careful, mapping out the other's response. Geno keeps pulling back before Sid's  _ done _ , so Sid keep chasing him, bringing their mouths together. Geno's tongue swipes across his lips, and as he opens them — Geno pulls back. Sid tracks him down again, this time swiping  _ his  _ tongue across Geno's mouth, and when he opens, letting Sid in — he pulls back again.

 

“ _ Geno _ .”

 

There's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

 

“Just.” Sid shifts back so he can properly glare down. “Fucking kiss me, alright?”

 

“Am!” His smile is verging on mischievous. “This how I kiss.”

 

“Well — stop.”

 

“Stop kiss?”

 

Sid refuses to indulge him. “When did you become such a comedian?”

 

Geno sits up suddenly, so Sid rests on his knees, in Geno's lap. “Always. Not notice?” He traces the shape of Sid's mouth with his index finger. “Stop — what is call? Pout?”

 

“Fuck you, I'm not pouting. It's called irritation. Because I don't like what you're doing.”

 

“No?” He runs the back of his hand against Sid's cheek, eyes on his mouth. “Let me fix, then?” He looks Sid in the eye. “Yes?” He puts pressure on one of Sid's shoulders — barely a suggestion, but Sid listens, sighing as he rotates onto his back.

 

Geno's on him in an instant, grinning down. “Okay, now fix.” He flattens Sid into the mattress, and Sid usually doesn't like this — doesn't like the weight of someone else on top of him, but when it's Geno, it's. Different.

 

Geno sighs into his mouth and leans back. “Why tense?” he says, running a hand across Sid's shoulder.

 

“Sorry,” Sid says automatically.

 

“Not sorry,” Geno says, nosing at his cheek. “Tell why.”

 

“I'm just. Used to being on top.”

 

Geno leans back, eying him. “Switch?”

 

Sid thinks about it for a bit. “Do you have a preference?”

 

“Like what you like.”

 

“That isn't an answer.”

 

“ _ Is _ . Want make you feel good. Don't care.”

 

Sid studies him, eyes narrowed. He seems to be telling the truth. Part of him wants to switch, but part of him just…doesn't. Might as well try something new. “I'm good.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And it's as easy as that. Geno kisses him slow, hard,  _ filthy _ , alternating between that and quick, chaste; he doesn't know what's coming next, and for once, he's happy to get swept into it until his mouth's buzzing, his cheeks flushed, hips pushing slowly up into Geno. He uses the hand he has in Geno's hair to tilt his head to the side, tonguing at his necklace, saying, “Geno.”

 

Geno hums in acknowledgment, mouthing at Sid's ear.

 

Sid's hips jerk as Geno scrapes his teeth against it. “I — do you want. Like. To fuck?”

 

Geno lets out a laugh in the back of his throat. “No, Sid, want hold pinkies and sleep opposite side of bed.”

 

“Shut up,” Sid breathes. “Smartass. It's called courtesy.” He bites his lip when Geno sucks at the junction between his ear and his jaw.

 

He soothes the spot he'd sucked with his tongue. “What you want?” Before waiting for an answer: “Blow you?”

 

“Fuck, yes, please.” Who the fuck says no to a blowjob?

 

He expects Geno to get right down to it, but Geno, as usual, defies expectations. He reaches down the unbutton Sid's jeans, but other than that, just continues the pattern — namely, kissing until Sid has trouble catching his breath.

 

“Thought you were gonna blow me?”

 

“Always try tell me what to do,” Geno says, finger tightening in his hair. “Bossy.”

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

He feels Geno shake his head against Sid's neck. “No.” He leans back, thumbing at the bottom of Sid's lip. “But maybe let me? Trust me?”

 

They stare at each other, panting, and Sid swallows as he nods. “Yeah, fine.”

 

Geno kisses him sweetly, smiling as he pulls away. “Thank you.” He kisses him again, decidedly less sweet. “Make you feel good.”

 

“Yeah, you, uh.” Sid tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut as Geno mouths down his neck. “You're already basically there.”

 

“ _ Basically _ there?” He makes a disappointed noise. “Do better.” He swipes a thumb across one of Sid's nipples, and when Sid hitches into the contact, he bends down and sucks it into his mouth, keeping it gentle, soft.

 

Sid's breath stutters, then continues stuttering when Geno sucks harder. “ _ Fuck _ . Yeah, okay, that's — great. Let's — move on.”

 

Geno ignores him and Sid arches his back, dropping back down to the bed when Geno finally stops. He doesn't have that much reprieve before Geno's repeating it on the other side, and Sid has to bite his lip hard to stop himself from making an embarrassing gasp. Instead, he buries his hand further in Geno's hair, legs flexing, unsure whether he wants to push into it or pull back when it gets to be a little too much. Geno pulls away before he has to commit to an option, kissing down his chest instead, pushing down Sid's jeans and underwear so he can suck kisses into the v of his hips.

 

Sid's breath rushes out of him on an exhale.

 

Geno presses down on his hips and grins up at him. “Good?”

 

“Fine,” Sid says, voice a little strangled.

 

Geno's put-upon sigh is so obviously fake. “Just try more hard.” He's about to put his mouth back, but pauses, saying, “Give 110%.”

 

Sid laughs, smiling down at him. “For sure, gotta dig deep, grind it out.”

 

Geno's word buzz across Sid's skin as he says, “Bring A game.” He dips down and sucks a kiss into the right side of Sid's hip.

 

“Yeah, gotta — gotta be willing to go to the dirty areas.”

 

Geno's grin is smug. “Very willing.” He tugs at Sid's clothing, saying, “Off.”

 

Sid shimmies out of them and Geno helps tug them all the way down. Geno gets up and tugs his own off, hopping on one leg a little as he takes off his jeans, and is back soon enough Sid doesn't have time to complain.

 

Sid runs his hands through his hair, then has to scrabble at the sheets as Geno sucks him down suddenly. “Oh,  _ Jesus _ .” He isn't all the way hard yet, but Geno seems determined to make that happen in as little time as possible. The way he reaches for Geno's hair with one hand is habit, but Geno catches it, lacing their fingers together, pressing it down onto the bed.

 

He pulls off. “Fingers?” he asks roughly.

 

“What?”

 

“Like fingers?”

 

Sid nods.

 

“Lube?”

 

He jerks his head toward the side table. “Second drawer.”

 

Geno reaches over him, rummaging around and sighing before getting on all fours, crawling closer so he can pull the drawer out and properly look. He throws it down the bed and gets back into place, shifting until he's comfortable.

 

Sid gets up onto his elbows so he can watch as Geno takes him into his mouth, abs contracting with a shuddery exhale when Geno uses a hand to stroke the part of his cock not in his mouth.

 

Sid reaches down to run his thumb across Geno's cheekbone, pressing harder when Geno leans into it, his eyes shutting.

 

“I'm probably not — uh. Probably not gonna last long,” he says, trying his best to keep his hips stuck down the mattress as Geno removes his hand, reaches for the lube.

 

“Good,” Geno pulls off to say, and then he puts his mouth back. The first brush of his finger against Sid's hole has him flatten back down to the mattress, blinking at the ceiling.

 

Geno pushes in slowly. It's been a while, so it feels weird rather than good. Sid shifts and Geno pulls it out, only to return a second later, wetter.

 

Sid spreads his legs, chewing his lip as he tilts his hips up and down, trying to make it easier —

 

Geno stops. “Stop move.”

 

“Sorry, sorry.”

 

He jerks a little when Geno finds his prostate, and Geno stops for a second before adding another finger and searching for it again. His mouth works up and down and Sid’s entire body feels hot

 

He gasps a little as Geno adds a third, then bites his lip as Geno doesn’t let up, his mouth wet and warm and his fingers stretching him wide.

 

He throws his arm over his face, pushing up into the crook of his elbow, the other hand grasping at the sheets. When Geno starts slowly, slowly massaging his prostate, he can't help the way he groans, grinds down.

 

Geno pulls off his cock completely and Sid complains wordlessly, looking down.

 

Geno's eyes are dark, his cheeks flushed as he pants, staring up at Sid with his pink mouth parted. “Come like this?”

 

“What do you — ” His mouth click shuts as Geno pushes his fingers in further, crooking them up, making little circles, and he makes a small sound in the back of his throat.

 

“Just this?”

 

Sid shakes his head. “Maybe.” It's a lie — he  _ can _ , it just takes a while. Neither he nor his partner are usually patient enough for that.

 

“Maybe?”

 

“Yeah, but it takes forever and I'm —  _ oh  _ — usually not patient enough for that.”

 

Geno stills and Sid tries his best to focus and hear him out instead of demanding he fucking get on with it. “Can try?”

 

Sid licks his lips, scanning Geno's face. “If you want?”

 

“You want?”

 

“Geno,” he says almost desperately. “I don't care as long as you get me off.”

 

He nods. “Okay.” Pulling his fingers out, he adds more lube before pushing back in, hitting the correct spot unerringly.

 

Sid presses his head back, mouth parted as he pants, and Geno gets down to it with the same intensity he brings to everything he wants to accomplish. It isn't surprising, then, that it doesn't take long before he's muffling stupid sounds in the back of his throat, trying his best to make sure they don't come out.

 

“Can make noise.” Geno's voice is rough, snagging on each vertebra as it drips down Sid's spine.

 

Sid doesn't take him up on the offer, no matter how nice the sentiment. He isn't  _ loud _ , and it isn't about to change.

 

Geno must do something different — vary pressure, angle,  _ something _ — because Sid presses down urgently as he chokes out, “Oh, God.”

 

Geno doesn't try to still him this time, just allows Sid to shift his hips to meet Geno's fingers, almost as if he were riding them. Sweat beads on the back of his neck, the small of his back, the back of his thighs. His mouth is in an 'O' and he squeezes his eyes shut, unable to catch his breath as Geno continues his onslaught, pleasure radiating up his gut, through his body; building, building, building.

 

He doesn't know how long it takes before it starts feeling inevitable, as if about to boil over any minute now. The thing about anything you put to boil, though, is that any time you're actually watching for it, it never does.

 

He keeps thinking _ Fuck, now _ and  _ It's gonna happen _ but it doesn't. His hair's matted down. “ _ Geno _ ,” he groans.

 

“ _ Sid _ ,” he groans back, and he sounds  _ gone _ . He tacks on something indiscernible — Russian, probably — and ends with, “ _ Fuck _ .”

 

Sid reaches down blindly and Geno catches his hand, lacing their fingers together again, but he doesn't move their hands, just squeezes gently, says, “ _ Fuck _ , I love you.”

 

He's so caught up in Geno, it finally boils over.

 

He comes with a shuddering gasp, spilling onto his belly, stiffening before collapsing back onto the bed, eyes shut as he catches his breath. Geno clambers over his body, kissing his chest, neck, temple. “Sid.”

 

Sid hums, lolling his head to the side, and his eyes open as he feels Geno's erection poking into his hip. He tries to sit up, shoving at Geno. “Shit, sorry, here — ” He gets Geno onto his back and has to take a moment to look at him — his red mouth, befuddled expression, fucking  _ cute  _ nose. Dipping down, he kisses him once, twice, before traveling down, slowly kissing his chest — he thumbs at his nipples but Geno doesn't seem to react, so he leaves them — and then down his happy trail, skipping his cock entirely and sucking kisses into his inner thighs, the left and then the right.

 

Just likes how he likes his skates done.

 

He nuzzles his balls, sucks one in, enjoying the way Geno pants, pets Sid's hair.

 

“Don't mind if you pull my hair,” he says, and Geno sucks in a quick breath before tightening his hand on Sid's head.

 

Sid mouths up his cock, pops the head into his mouth and hums, shutting his eyes.

 

Geno curses.

 

He slackens his jaw and moves back, licking at his lips to break the strand of saliva connecting his mouth and Geno's cock, then raises his eyebrows at Geno. “Fingers?”

 

Geno nods vehemently.

 

“Sorry, what was that?”

 

“ _ Yes _ , Sid.” He tugs a little. “Say  _ yes _ .”

 

He laps at the head, smiling, then moves back. “Okay.” He flicks open the lube and pours a generous amount on his fingers, gently brushing them over Geno's hole and watching for any trepidation — there is none, just Geno pushing down impatiently — before slowly pushing in.

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Geno hisses, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back. He tugs at Sid's hair again, up, and Sid complies, wetting his lips before taking Geno in.

 

He pushes in and out slowly, eyes trained on Geno's face, and when all he sees is pleasure — mouth parted, head pressing back, throat bobbing — he pushes in another, careful. Crooking his fingers, he hums when he seems to hit the right spot, Geno jerking up into his mouth; he's glad he'd braced for it, or he'd gag.

 

He allows Geno to get used to it, hitting his prostate every time, before adding a third. He watches Geno's face and he fucking  _ loves  _ this — loves the heat, weight of Geno's cock in his mouth, loves knowing he's the reason Geno looks  _ gone _ , why he can't control the way he's pushing up into Sid's mouth. Because  _ he  _ isn't a tease, he doubles down, works his fingers and his mouth until Geno's breath is broken, chopped into segments that are interspersed with soft  _ oh _ 's and unintelligible words.

 

He pulls off, ignoring Geno's loud sound of complaint, to say: “Want you to come, Geno. Can you? Please?” And he gets back to it, taking Geno far into his throat, until he can swallow around him.

 

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” he pants. Tugging more aggressively, he says, “Fuck, Sid, gonna — ”

 

Sid moans around him, ensuring he continues with the same pattern, eyes trained on Geno's face as he sees him start to come — mouth falling open further, cheeks flushed, a strangled groan emerging from his throat; and then, salty, bitter taste on Sid's tongue.

 

Shutting his eyes, he swallows it down, sucking until Geno's pulling away. Only then does he let up, let Geno's cock fall from his mouth. He climbs up until he's lying next to Geno, refusing to feel bad about the smugness flowing through him at the way Geno's chest heaves up and down, up and down. He waits a bit before sidling closer, placing a kiss under Geno's ear. “Good?”

 

Geno turns his head, catching Sid in a quick kiss. “Best.”

 

He smiles, tucking his head into the joint between Geno's neck and shoulder. “Good. Because I'm tired, and I'm gonna fall asleep.” He pulls away, feeling around the bed for some clothing before picking something up — jeans, it feels like; oh well — and quickly cleaning up the mess on his belly, then turning to turn the lamp off.

 

Geno stretches, groaning. “Me, too.” He shifts onto his side, and they're nose-to-nose, eye to eye. Geno looks even sleepier than usual. “Talk more tomorrow?”

 

“Well,” Sid says, bringing up his hand to gently squeeze Geno's hip, trace patterns into it. He smiles a little as he burrows his face into his pillow, shutting his eyes. “We've got time, so, yeah, I guess. Tomorrow it is.”

 

Geno shifts onto his back, breathing slow and steady. Sid's quiet for a bit, and it's long enough, he isn't even sure Geno's still awake.

 

Maybe that's what allows him to say: “Listen, I'm — I've never really done this.” He's never had a long-term relationship. At sixteen, four months had been “long-term,” but that's the longest he's gone with the same person. “I don't know what I'm doing or — ”

 

Geno faces Sid again, bringing up a hand to cover his mouth. “Know this. No one know what to do. Figure out.” And then, crankier, but Sid can see the hint of his smile, “You tired, no? Why start talk now? Always talk.”

 

“It's called  _ communication _ , it's an important part of every relationship.”

 

“Know what else important?” He pauses for dramatic effect and then whispers loudly, “ _ Sleep _ .”

 

Sid laughs softly. “Fine, point taken. Tomorrow, though.”

 

He hums, stretching onto his back. “Yes, talk so much tomorrow, even  _ you  _ not want talk more.”

 

“I don't talk  _ that  _ much.”

 

“Do.” A pause. “Like hear you talk. Mean I talk less. Is win-win.”

 

“Win-win, huh?” he says softly, his eyes tracing Geno's silhouette in the dark. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

Sid isn't used to win-win situations. There's always someone who loses; it's the nature of competition. This time, though, maybe it  _ is  _ a win-win.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, guys!! let me know what you thought. tried to make this angsty but not, like, melodramatic, y'know?? hopefully i succeeded. 
> 
> @stormdancer: i know you said you liked non-hockey au's, but i just. really suck at writing about them withOUT hockey being involved, y'know?? i tried to incorporate other stuff into it, but couldn't really incorporate the prompts :(( hope this was okay anyway!


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